


The Limitations of Me

by SnowHeart



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Feelings and shit, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Les Amis are theatre kids, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:47:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowHeart/pseuds/SnowHeart
Summary: AU where Les Amis are back as over-eager theatre kids and slowly gain their memories while putting on a production of Les Mis.Featuring panic, pining, parties, and wildly inaccurate casting decisions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken from thomasmxller's tumblr post
> 
> Title and opening quote from 'The Sixsmith Letters' in David Mitchell's 'Cloud Atlas'

_I understand now, that boundaries between noise and sound are conventions.  All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention, if only one can first conceive of doing so._

_Moments like this...I can feel your heart beating as clearly as I feel my own and I know that separation is an illusion._

_My life extends far beyond the limitations of me..._

_I believe there is another world waiting for us, Sixsmith.  A better world. And I'll be waiting for you there._

_I believe we do not stay dead long.  Find me beneath the Corsican stars._

_Yours eternally, R. F._

  
\--

 

The clock is broken, face smashed and hands frozen at five minutes to six. It’s a strange thing for Enjolras to notice first, given the chaos that makes up the rest of the room, but his eyes fly to the timepiece immediately. He was the one who bought it, after all. They’d given it to Mabeuf at the end of last year along with a snide comment about his time-keeping skills and a _Thank You_ card from the whole drama club.

Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t notice it so much as he falls over it the moment he walks in the door. The clock is lying on its side on the tattered carpets as if someone had tossed it across the room.   
“Ah Enjolras.” Mabeuf smiles at him. “Come in, have a seat.”

Enjolras can only stare at the office, and the stacks of cardboard boxes that Mabeuf is busy loading books into. “What’s going on?”

“Sit, please.”

He does. Enjolras looks around for a moment, and squeezes into the only chair that’s not buried under a mountain of files. Mabeuf manages to perch on a clear corner of desk. Next to him, Enjolras can just see a plaque that says _M. Mabeuf, Head of Drama_ , sticking out of a cardboard box.

“Are you going somewhere?” he demands.

“Yes. I wanted to tell you in person, you see. The state pushed through another round of funding cuts to education this summer, and as such the school board have decided that it’s time to let me go, as it were, and let the drama department fold.’

“What? They can’t just… no!” Enjolras splutters, for once in his life lost for words. His thoughts are paralysed somewhere between shock, outrage, and a sudden surge of anguish. “That’s utter bullshit, Sir, you’ve worked here for twenty years-“

“And I was only two more away from retirement.” There’s no anger in Mabeuf’s eyes, and Enjolras wonders suddenly if the clock had already taken the brunt of it. Instead, he offers Enjolras a sad smile. “Don’t worry about me. Lord knows my garden could do with the extra time and attention. I”m only sorry I won’t be here to see what you and your friends pull off in your final year. You’ve done great things for theatre at this school, truly, and I have no doubt you’ll continue to do so wherever life takes you.”

“But there has to be something we can do!”

“It’s done, Enjolras. If I were you, I’d simply try and enjoy your last year here and give your all to one last production. Send the drama department out with a bang, yes? Speaking of which, have you picked a script yet? Something to really play to your strengths and make colleges sit up and take notice?”

“A script?”

“That’s why you asked for the meeting, no? I’d be a fairly poor teacher if I didn’t do my last appointment. Let’s hear it, then.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He’s had a show picked out for most of the summer, an obscure play by Kafka that will put Corinth High head and shoulders above the other High School theatre departments if they can pull off the complex staging and physical theatre. It’s interpretive art at it’s finest and, he realises with a start, not what they need at all. Because Enjolras refuses to accept that they’re cutting drama out of the school. Mabeuf wants him to put together a show that will go out with a bang? Enjolras will give them a bang alright. He’ll give them a show that’s so fucking fantastic that the board will simply be unable to shut them down.

“Enjolras?” Mabeuf prompts, when he doesn’t say anything.

He looks around the office, and his eyes settle on a script lying on the top of one of the stacks. And something in the back of his head, subtler than a whisper and more insistent than a nudge, says _That one. That is what you need._

Ten minutes later, and Enjolras leaves the office, script in hand and with permission to begin auditions at the end of the week. He steps over the broken clock on his way out.

\--

  
  
  
“Courf…” Combeferre’s voice is low and laced with concern. Courfeyrac straightens from where he’s been leaning on the counter to chat with the new barista, and follows his gaze. It’s immediately obvious what he’s looking at, and Courfeyrac bites back a curse. This can’t be good.

Enjolras is most of the way through his second coffee when they slide into the booth with their drinks. This in itself is not unusual. Courfeyrac has long since given up worrying about his friend’s caffeine intake, and Enjolras seems to run on the stuff. A takeaway cup in hand as he walks into first period. A travel mug sitting half forgotten on his desk as works. The way he spends the week before any show in a caffeinated haze and vibrating from head to toe. All this is to be expected. What does catch Coufreyac’s attention is the marker scribble on it’s lid, declaring Enjolras is drinking some concoction filled to bursting with various syrups and cream. He only combines caffeine with sugar when things are really bad, and they’re only two weeks into the school year. Just what it says that the three of them are so in tune with each other’s coffee habits, Courfeyrac isn’t so sure. Probably that they spend far too much time together, or at least too much time in this one coffee shop.

“What’s this big news you texted about, then?” Combeferre asks. “I’m assuming it’s important if it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Did Mabeuf give you the go ahead for _The Trial?”_

Enjolras smiles stiffly. “Not exactly.” He gives a brief run-down of his meeting with Mabeuf, and Courfeyrac’s smile slips from his face. The sugar makes sense now.

“They’re shutting the drama department down?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

“Do you?” Because Mabeuf has always treated Enjolras as an equal partner as President of the drama club, but the school board are far less likely  to care what he has to say.

“The board thinks we’re a waste of funding because they can’t see how drama can benefit the school. So we show them they’re wrong. Put together a show, get the community excited about it, talk to newspapers, radio stations, write to our representatives. Whatever it takes, until they can’t ignore us, and until shutting us down will be more trouble than it’s worth. We get the whole damned town to turn up on the night of the show… It’s a long shot, I know,” Enjolras adds, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre share a glance. “But it’s the best plan I have.”

“It could work.” Combeferre allows eventually.

“And if nothing else, we go out on a massive ‘Fuck you’ to the board.” says Courfeyrac.

“Exactly. So you’re with me?”

There’s a funny inflection in Enjolras’ voice, something that Courfeyrac would label as ‘nervous’ if it were anyone else. This is about far more than a commitment to put on their best show yet.

“What’s going on, Chief?”

“We’re not going to generate any interest if we put on _The Trial._ Kafka’s far too obscure. I told Mabeuf we’d put on something else instead.”

“What are we doing?”

Enjolras tells them.

“Bullshit.” Courfeyrac’s reply is immediate.

“What are we really doing?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras huffs, an expression the two of them know far too well, and reaches into his bag for the script. He slides it across the table, and for a moment they just stare at it. Enjolras could only have picked it up a couple of hours ago, but it’s already dog-eared and covered in the scribbles he calls handwriting. Sill, the title is clear.

“No way…” Courfeyrac flips through the first few pages. This is too good to be true. This is the fucking dream for kids like them who spend every spare minute in the theatre. “Mabeuf signed off on this?”

“He did.”

Combeferre, however, only frowns. “Why?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“And why did you do that, exactly?”

“Because it’s popular, it engaging, and has relevant commentary about today’s socio-political-“

“Enjolras.” Combeferre interrupts. “This is a musical.”

And all at once, Courfeyrac understands. _Jesus_ , he thinks, excitement fast giving way to a horrified confusion. _What the hell have you done?_

Enjolras’ fingers tap against the side of his mug. “I know.”

“And you can’t sing for shit.”

“I know.”

“But… It’s Senior Year. You have to be in it!”

It’s not just that Courfeyrac can’t imagine doing a show without Enjolras, who’s acting ability had been clear as early as middle school. It’s that for as long as he’s known him, Enjolras has lived his life according to The Plan. They all have. The three of them are going to leave school and go to college together, and change the world. Somehow. They haven’t exactly worked that part out yet, but it’s not important. What matters is that they’re all going to be together, and that Courfeyrac is the only one with enough family money tucked away to afford it. Combeferre is on track for every academic award they can throw at him, but Enjolras has always had a different plan.

“What about your leading role? The college scouts? Your scholarship?”

“None of that matters.”

“It’s all you’ve ever wanted,” Combeferre argues. “Enjolras-“

“They’re trying to shut the theatre down. It’s okay for us, we get our last year, but what about all the younger kids? They deserve to get the chances we did, and the board wants to take that away from them. Who cares about my scholarship when we’re working for something so much bigger? Please. I can’t do this without you guys.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t understand. As far as he’s concerned, all Enjolras is doing is throwing his future away. But then again, the theatre has never meant as much to him. He loves the stage, sure. But Enjolras lives for it. And perhaps a part of him knows, even now, that he’ll follow his Chief down any path.

“When do we start?” he grins.

“'Ferre?”

“You’re insane. Both of you. But if I had the power to talk sense into you, I wouldn’t be wasting it here. I’m in.”

Courfeyrac slides the script into the middle of the table and places his hand on top of it. He does this every time, and every time the other two roll their eyes, but always pile theirs on top. “Team _Les Mis.”_

\--

 

  
“Is that you, Cosette?”

The question comes from the dining room the moment Cosette walks in the door and she sighs. “Who else would it be?” she wants to yell back, but that kind of talk only ever ends in a lecture. Instead, she plucks an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table and walks through to the study.

Her Papa is sitting at his desk. At least she assumes it’s her Papa; He’s almost entirely hidden behind a broadsheet, with only his hands visible at the sides and a pair of broad, bushy eyebrows peeking out from over the top.

“How was school today?” The newspaper asks.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

She shrugs. “I did my work, I ate my lunch, I walked home. What do you want me to say?”

Papa flicks down the top of the paper to look at her properly. “I want to hear that you’re happy, my darling. Or if you’re not, I want to hear what the problem is so that we can fix it.”

“There’s no problem,” Cosette assures him. “I like the school perfectly fine.”

“There’s that word fine again.”

Cosette sighs and leans against the bookshelf. “There’s nothing wrong with the school. It’s just… I don’t know, difficult to try and slot in when everyone’s so set in their friendships and clubs.”

“It was always going to be difficult starting somewhere new for Senior Year. But you just have to be yourself-”

“It would be a lot easier,” Cosette interjects, “If I could actually do any of the after school clubs.”

Papa’s face darkens. “I’m not having this conversation again.”

The thing about Corinth High is that almost all it’s extracurricular activity takes place after the school day has ended. It’s a perfectly decent system in principle, and one that ensures the town doesn’t fill up with teenagers at a loose end at four each day. The problem, though, is that Cosette is under strict instructions to come straight home every day.

She loves her Papa, she really does. Cosette can’t remember much of her life before he adopted her, but she can recall fragments of fear and darkness that evaporated the day a stranger took her into his life. He’s unfailingly kind and would move mountains if required. He’s also incredibly paranoid.

One day, Cosette will demand the story of the man who became her father. She’ll sit him down until the shadows that have always dogged his heels and crept into their lives take shape. Today, she’ll settle for that little bit more of a chance to actually make something of her year in this town.

(Cosette doesn’t ask, and a part of her can’t help but wonder if she really wants to know the answer. She’s not sure what she’ll do if the shadows turn out to exist nowhere but inside her Papa’s head?)

“I think we need to. You want to fix the problem, this is the problem! How do you expect me to actually get to know these people if I disappear the moment the final bell rings?”

“All I ask is that you’re safe.”

“We live two blocks from school. I’m not sure how much safer you can keep me!”

“What are you asking?”

She reaches into her rucksack and pulls out the flyer she’s been reading and re-reading all afternoon. “They’re holding auditions for the show tomorrow. I think this is something I could be good at. And I want to try.”

Papa brushes a wayward curl from her face. “I know it’s something you can be great at. All I want is what’s good for you.”

“This is what’s good for me.” At least she really it could be. Cosette can smile at the kids who sit in the back of French, but she doubts they have any idea who she is. Three weeks and there’s not a single person at Corinthe High she can realistically call her friend.

Maybe, just maybe, _Les Mis_ can change that.

\--

  
  
“How did they even get the school to agree to it? Prostitutes  and suicide aren’t exactly child-friendly.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Grantaire pokes his pasta with a fork and wonders if anything in it can technically be classified as food. It’s unlikely. “Sit double French with Walsh, and suicide starts to look very school appropriate.”

The two of them spend those lessons in the back of the room catching up on sleep, counting down every mind-numbing second or in Grantaire’s case, drawing little cartoons of the old bat. He’s considering turning it into a series with backstory and plot and everything. It would be a better use of his time than paying attention, at any rate.

Eponine only kicks him. “That’s not funny.”

“Sorry. But you’ve been going on about this play all day. I love you, but there’s only so much about your little drama club I can hear.”

“It’s _Les Mis_ ,” she defends. “It’s exciting. And it’s your drama club too.”

Grantaire snorts. They both know that he only spends time in the theatre because the school mandates an extracurricular activity on Wednesday afternoons and it’s the best option he has. Like hell is he trying out for sports, and art- well, that didn’t work out. He’s far happier locked away in the back room painting sets and props for whatever show they’re putting on with his headphones turned up as high as they go.

If only certain assholes were happy to leave him alone to do it, life would be so much easier.

“Have you guys heard?” a cheery voice asks, and _dear God_ , it might actually be possible to summon drama kids by thought alone. Not that Jehan could ever be considered an asshole, of course. It may actually be scientifically impossible to think a bad thought about the boy who slides into the seat next to him. He’s a whirlwind of colour and freckles and unrelenting cheerfulness that’s so out of place in this shitty school. In this shitty town, in this shitty world, Granatire sometimes thinks when he’s in a particularly foul mood. Tell him that Jehan is a being sent here from another world to save them all through the power of simple goodness, and he’d probably believe you.

_(You always were the best of us, Jean Provaire.)_

The problem isn’t even that the whole drama club seems to move in a herd. Sure enough, within seconds the three of them are joined by a whole group of people pulling out chairs to sit on their table. Because Grantaire likes the theatre kids just fine, in so far as he really knows any of them. They’re all nice enough once you get past the collective obsession for all things theatre. He spends the shows that don’t need scenery up in the light box with Musichetta, so Grantaire’s formed a tentative friendship with Joly and Bossuet through her. More importantly, Eponine likes them, and that’s a rare honour to bestow indeed.

So Granatire really doesn’t mind that their table occasionally becomes the venue for a lunchtime theatre meeting. Or at least he wouldn’t if it wasn’t for their President.

He does his best not to even glance in Enjolras’ direction as he sits down as far away from Granatire as the table will allow. As ever, his best is nowhere near enough. He will never be able to put into words exactly it is about Enjolras that draws his gaze simply by breathing. It’s not just that he manages to look like a statue come to life even in a ratty tshirt, or that he’s smarter than most the teachers here. Hell, that much is true of half the drama club, when Grantaire thinks about it. The best he can come up with is that Enjolras has an uncanny ability to take up all the space in the room, and inside Grantaire’s head as well.

“R?” Eponine asks, and he realises with a start that half the table is turned to look at him. At least he’s staring at his pasta instead of at the beautiful blonde asshole.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you guys were auditioning,” Combeferre asks with a tight smile.

“That’ll have to be a solid pass, I’m afraid.”

“But it’s Les Mis!” Jehan says, scandalised, as if Granatrie could have possibly missed that.

“Yeah, not really my thing.”

“It’s everyone’s thing!”

Joly shakes his head and places a hand on Jehan’s arm. “R doesn’t do shows. And lucky for us, right, or we’d be doing the whole thing with a plywood background. Reckon you can work some magic this time around?”

“Sure. I’ll build the biggest damn barricade you’ve ever seen in your life.”

Something twists uncomfortably in his chest as he speaks, and Granatrie has a pretty good idea what’s wrong. Enjolras hasn’t said a single word.

For as long as they’ve been doing drama together, Grantaire has been avoiding the stage and Enjolras has been trying to change his mind. Even before he was running them, Enjolras would track him down to demand why he’s the only member of the drama club not to try out for shows. And if he’s being entirely honest with himself, the fact that Enjolras thinks it’s any of his business is half the reason that Granatrie continues to stick to backstage. Because even if he wanted a part in this stupid show (which he doesn’t) and even if the posters jumped out at him and screamed _notice-me-this-is-important_ (which they don’t), Granatire simply can’t give Enjolras the satisfaction.  It’s infuriating to the extreme, but at least Grantaire's got a fairly good idea of what answers will infuriate him the most by now. This time it’s a toss up between “I’m a spy, and I need to keep a low profile,” and “I’m experiencing such a severe existential crisis that any attempt to associate myself with another character will cause my sense of self to entirely unravel.”

He doesn’t need them.

Enjolras doesn’t say a single word, and Granatrie can only conclude that he’s finally worn Enjolras down to defeat.

Or more likely, that he simply doesn't give a damn.

And he can’t help but feel oddly disappointed.

\--

 

Her leg bounces up and down, and Cosette does her best to still it. She’d been so focused on getting her father to agree to even let her audition, and now she’s here she has no idea what she’s going to do in there. Sing, obviously, but beyond that... The last show she auditioned for was a talent show back in sixth grade, and this whole setup seems a little more… well, the word that springs to mind is ‘intense’.

It’s impossible to have spent almost a month at this school and not know who the theatre kids are, or at least the three who seem to be running things. It’s as if they can’t help but draw attention to themselves by the simple act of breathing. Even Cosette who has always rolled her eyes at those kind of guys has to admit they might just be worthy of that attention. But it’s a whole different matter when they’re about to judge her like this.

_Oh God, what had she been thinking? This is a terrible idea, there’s no way she can-_

“Hey.” Cosette looks up, and is surprised to see the girl from French class standing in the doorway. “Relax. They’re a scary looking bunch, but they’re a real bunch of nerds, I promise.” She crosses the room to sit next to her. “Cosette, right?”

“I… yeah.” She stutters slightly, caught off guard that this girl she only half recognises knows her name. “You’ve got fourth period with Walsh, yeah?”

“Unfortunately. Eponine.” She offers her hand. “I didn’t know you were into drama. This is so great, it’s such a fucking guys club at the moment.”

“I guess we haven’t really talked.”

“Not with Walsh breathing down our necks like a freaking ghoul.”

And Cosette has to snort because a demonic hag that scavenges graveyards? That sounds about right. “Not a fan of French, or just of her?”

“Both?” Eponine offers. “It’s not really my thing.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing we won’t be trying out for a show set in France any time soon.”

“Minor inconvenience. If anything I need to worry about a British accent for this one.”

A boy pokes his head around the door before Cosette can reply. He’s definitely one of the drama kids, and seems to have a reputation as the sane one of the three. Cosette hardly knows the guy, but she’s willing to bet it’s a lie.

“Cosette, I presume?” he asks, adjusting his glasses. “When you’re ready.”

Eponine gives her a thumbs up as she passes. Cosette hardly notices. _You’ve got this._

 

_\--_

 

Enjolras stares at the word document and wonders just what the hell it is he’s missing. He’s spent all evening working on this, shuffling and reshuffling roles and visualising everyone, and yet it still doesn’t feel quite right.

Objectively, logically, he knows this is a good cast list. He’s played to everyone’s strengths and vocal abilities, while giving them roles to grow into that will stretch their talent even further. This will work. It will more than work, it will be the makings of a fantastic show that could just save their theatre, and there’s nothing to stop him sending it off right now.

Except.

There’s some missing component, a piece of the puzzle floating just beyond his reach that Enjolras can’t quite visualise, let alone grasp. He’s so sure it’s there, some different perspective or slight change that will suddenly shift the whole thing into focus. Or maybe he just needs to throw it all up in the air and start again.

He rakes his hand across his face in frustration and leans back in his chair. This is ridiculous. He could sit here for another two hours and still be no closer to the magical solution. Maybe there’s no perfect way to do this. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Combeferre chimes that Enjolras is already holding himself to some impossibly high standard, and that it’s going to be a long six weeks if he keeps it up. That’s probably fair. Enjolras has long since learnt that Combeferre, imaginary or otherwise, is always right. But this matters, matters like no show he’s ever put on before, and only the highest of standards will do.

His phone pings, and Enjolras can’t help but smile when he sees that, as if summoned by exhausted thought alone, it’s Combeferre.

_Are you done yet? If you’re still awake to read this, the answer’s no and you’re being an idiot._

Enjolras calls him, and Combeferre picks up immediately.

“Let’s hear it, then,” he says, and Enjolras can feel the exasperation and resignation radiating from halfway across town.

“I still want to move Bossuet.”

“But he was fantastic!”

“I’m not overly wild about giving the part to a guy. I know that we’re not worrying about gendered casting,” he adds quickly when Combeferre begins to protest, “But it’s a narrative explicitly about violence against the female body and identity and it feels wrong to ignore that.” He pauses. “Or is it sexist to make Fantine the only strictly gendered role in the whole play and deprive the character of everything but _femininity_? What do you think?”

“I think,” says Combeferre with a wry chuckle, “That the two of us aren’t exactly qualified to answer that, and that you’re seriously overthinking the whole thing. Have you changed anything from the document you sent me an hour ago?”

“No, but-”

“Because it was great then, and it’s great now. So send it in, piss off, and let me go to sleep like a normal human being.”

“You were the one who texted me,” Enjolras points out. “What are you doing up at one in the morning?”

A pause. “X-Files?”

“Wow. You know, that’s really not- Wait. As in watching the show or looking up actual X-files?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” And yeah, that sounds about right.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, ‘Ferre.”

“Aww, I love you too.”

\--

 

 

Grantaire has always been something of an exception in Eponine’s life. The rules and walls that she’s spent so many years painstakingly constructing simply don’t apply where he’s concerned.

_Don’t let people come to the house._

_Don’t trust them with Gavroche._

_They can’t help you._

All these are things that Grantaire has slowly overcome in the long years since they’ve known each other, simply by being there. It hasn’t always been easy; There was a time when he was just the annoying boy who refused to take _“Go away,”_ for an answer, and she’s screamed at him to butt out of her life on more than one occasion. He never did, and Eponine isn’t sure he’ll ever quite understand what he’s done in staying. She wouldn’t be here without Grantaire, that much is sure. She would have taken Gavroche and, well, Eponine isn’t exactly sure what, but it wouldn’t have involved staying in that house. Grantaire never asks exactly what her parents are mixed up in, another thing Eponine loves him for, but he’s always a phone call away.

He’s the best thing in her life, truly, but the rules that Grantaire breaks simply by breathing are still very much in place. As such, Eponine doesn’t exactly have many friends. It’s simply not worth letting people half-way into her life then slamming the door shut, and it's definitely not worth the risk letting them all the way in. This makes for somewhat of a lonely existence, but it’s nothing Eponine isn’t used to. She has her brother. She has R. And more recently, she has the drama club who seem perfectly happy to let her flit in and out of their lives.

It’s enough.

Cosette, however, is doing a fairly good job of throwing a wrench in the gears of Eponine’s perfectly balanced and compartmentalised life without even knowing it.

She doesn’t think much of her at first, barely notices her presence at the back of the French classroom beyond the customary _New Girl Alert_ , and once a tight smile when she lends her a pen. Even when they bump into each other outside the audition room, she’s only half paying attention to the conversation. It’s nice to see another girl interested in drama, and she tells her as much, but Eponine isn’t holding out much hope that Cosette will actually get into the show as a new student. Not with the way Enjolras protects his productions like a dragon curled around her clutch of eggs.

Hell, Eponine is far more worried about whether she’ll get in herself. She can act circles around most of the guys, there’s no point in denying it, but she’s never been much of a singer. The only time she ever sings is when Grantaire and Gavroche press-gang her into sing-alongs in R’s beat-up car. So it’s all Eponine can do to swap a few stray words with the girl who looks set to collapse from nerves, and she doesn’t really think anything of it.

What she’s not expecting, is Cosette to become something of a fixture in her life in no time flat. It should be annoying. Instead, Eponine finds herself making space for Cosette at lunch, trading notes on homework that Grantaire is just as clueless about, and completely ignoring the smirks he sends in her direction as she does so. So Eponine is walking with Cosette after French, when she suddenly grabs her arm and gestures to one of the noticeboards.

“Oh my gosh, is that-?”

It is.

 

_Corinthe High presents Les Miserables_   
  
_Jean ValJean_ \- Joly   
_Javert_ \- Combeferre   
_Fantine_ \- Bossuet   
_Cosette_ \-  Jehan   
_Marius_ \- Courfeyrac   
_M. Thénardier_ \- Feuilly   
_Mme. Thénardier_ \- Bahorel   
_Éponine_ \- Cosette   
_Enjolras_ \- Marius   
Grantaire - Eponine   
  
This is followed by a list of the chorus and crew, and instructions to make it to rehearsals on time.

  
  
“Oh my gosh!” Cosette takes Eponine’s hand and squeezes it. “You got in! Congrats!

“Congrats me?” she replies, even as the shock of _holy-shit-they-gave-me-a-part_ rushes around her head. “Congrats you! That’s an amazing part. And on your first go as well! What the hell did you do in that audition?”

“I sang. What do you mean my first go?”   
“The guys who run the drama club take their job far too seriously. Don’t get me wrong, they’re amazing, but they’re kind of protective over their shows. No one ever gets cast if Enjolras doesn’t like their work, and he’s given you one of the lead roles within two weeks of you getting here.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. This is kind of a big deal.”

Instead of smiling, Cosette’s face crumples in horror. “Oh no. Oh shit, this is bad. I just wanted to meet some new people. I don’t know how these things work, who have I kicked out? Everyone’s going to hate me-“

“Hey.” Eponine smiles at her. “Everyone’s going to love you. And if they don’t, we can shrink their costumes in the wash.”

“You’ve done that before?”

“Only when they really deserve it.”

A door opens behind them, and a familiar boy walks out. Eponine straightens and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear before she even registers the movement, and silently curses. She’s better than, she’s moving on this year, she’s… kidding herself entirely.

“Hey, Marius. The cast list’s up!”

“Hi, ‘Ponine, hi…” He falters, lips freezing around half-formed words. “Hi.”

“Cosette.”

“Marius Pontmercy.”

“Oh, as in…?” Cosette gestures to the cast list behind them. “You’re in the show as well?”

“Meet your new leading lady,” Eponine says.

“I’m not-“

“You got cast? That’s… wow, that’s-“

“A big deal, I hear.”

And God, Marius is smiling. He’s looking at Cosette with a delighted grin plastered across his face, and Eponine has watched enough terrible movies her time to know how this goes. She blushes, which of course somehow only looks even prettier on Cosette, and Eponine can all but hear the romantic chorus swelling.

Five years. And he’s never once looked at her like that.

“Well, aren’t you going to look?” Cossette asks, and Marius chokes on empty air.

“What?”

“The cast list.”

“Oh, right. Sure. Definitely.”

They step aside, and Marius cranes his neck to read the notice. “Go Joly… ooh Courf, he’ll nail that, and _Oh my God!_ What were they thinking? I can’t be _Enjolras_ , I-”

“Sure you can.” Enjolras strides towards them, Courfeyrac and Combeferre behind him in a perfect V formation and _Jesus_ , Eponine thinks, there’s a reason they’re the drama club. The three of them look like the poster for some coming-of-age indie movie. It’s ridiculous. “It will be good for you. We’ll see you guys later?”

“What’s later?” Cosette asks, and despite the pressure still sitting squarely on her chest Eponine has to laugh.

“You really are new. I hope you’ve got no plans for this evening. Or any evening this term. We start today”


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras takes a single moment to take it all in before he speaks. The first couple of rows of the school auditorium are filled with his friends, and any minute now they’re going to begin to create something truly amazing. Right now, all they have is black text printed on white paper, and the ideas that swirl around his head in dazzling colour of all the things this show could be. He has to make those ideas a reality. Enjolras simply has to, and that starts right now.

“Welcome, everyone,” he says, and all eyes snap to him on centre stage. “Most of you know me, but for any newcomers my name is Enjolras and I run the drama club. I’m going to be your director for the next six weeks, and I’m excited to get started. I just want to say a couple of things before we get to work.”

Out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees Joly whisper something to Bossuet, and he can only guess they’re debating how long his ‘few things’ will be. They’ve been teasing him about his habit of talking them to death for years. Honestly, he doesn’t mind. They’re only joking after all, and at the end of the day his methods get results. And part of that method is making sure everyone knows where they stand before they begin.

“First off, congratulations to everyone. You got in, and you’ve all been given your roles. Now the real work begins. Secondly, we rehearse here every evening after lessons, and I expect all of you to actually turn up. If you’ve got somewhere else to be, then that’s just too bad. If you’re not here we can’t run the scenes, and the entire show goes to shit. And then Bahorel kills you.” A few people, including Bahorel, laugh. Some of the younger kids and newbies simply look terrified. “If you’ve got a problem come and find me, or find Ferre and Courf-“ they wave accordingly, “-and we’ll do our best to sort it out. The best time to do that is today, because we’ll be sorting out things like scripts and schedules. And I think that’s about it, unless I’m forgetting something?”

“You are.” Courfeyrac says. “Something super important.”

“What did I-? Oh, no. We’re not doing that.”

“Yes we are. It’s tradition.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It would be unlucky to mess with tradition,” Combeferre chimes in, and if they’re both against him then Enjolras knows he has no chance.

“Fine. We have a Theatre Clap. Congratulations, to the surprise of fucking no one, to Courf! Now can we please get to work?”

The last sentence is drowned out in a wave of applause and whooping, as Courfeyrac stands and takes a ridiculous ornate bow. Enjolras rolls his eyes and climbs down from the stage, just in time to hear Cosette ask Eponine “What’s going on, exactly? What does Theatre Clap mean?”

“It means that our beloved Courfeyrac has, yet again, failed to keep it in his pants.”

 

\--

 

Grantaire’s been behind the scenes of enough shows now to expect it, but he’s still amazed at how quickly the term flies past once a production gets underway. The staff, as ever, are utterly unsympathetic to the fact that they’re effectively taking on a full time job alongside classwork. It’s fair enough, though, because Enjolras for his part doesn’t care in the slightest that they have real work to do. Between the two side’s refusal to let up, there’s barely a moment to breathe, and Grantaire can hardly believe it when two weeks of rehearsals have already flown by.

As much as he hates to admit it, though, Enjolras might just know what he’s doing. Is he an insane, single-minded director who’s taking the whole thing far too seriously? Perhaps. But he’s also putting together something truly special.

This much is apparent when Grantaire slips into the back of the auditorium one evening, just in time to watch the cast finish up with the first act. The choreography needs some serious work, they’re not wearing costumes, and he can still spot half a dozen ratty scripts. None of that seems to matter. Just for a moment, as the music swells and they sing the last few notes, Grantaire can see the war they’re about to wage. The seats and stage fall away, and the streets of Paris emerge from the gloam, cobblestones and lights on the Seine teetering on the precipice of a new world.

And of course, Grantaire has to ruin the moment entirely.

“Yeah! Woo!” He yells, clapping loudly the moment the singing stops, and at once the spell is broken. “Vive La France! Fuck the police! Eat the rich!”

His friends laugh, amid trying to get their breath back. Enjolras, sitting in the second row, only turns around and frowns.  

“What are you doing here? We’re in the middle of rehearsals.”

“Really? Someone should have said. I thought you were about to stage a real revolution and I came to fight the good fight.” He grins, hating his ability to do nothing but talk shit in the hopes of comendering the attention of one who so clearly couldn’t stand him. “Relax, Fearless Leader, I’m here to talk staging with ‘Ferre.”

“But-”

“I asked him to drop by.” Combeferre cleans his glasses on the sleeve of his jumper. He usually wears contacts for actual shows, but there’s no point in burning through a set every day for rehearsals. 

Enjolras glances at his ever-present notebook. “I wanted to go straight into Do You Hear anyway, so you might as well do it now. Tell him what I said about-”

“Historical accuracy, I know.”

“And-”

“Limited backstage space. On it.” 

Combeferre hops off the stage elegantly and Grantaire, who is biting down a comment about how Enjolras can just tell him himself if it’s such a big fucking deal, follows him to the light box at the back of the room.

“Sorry about that,” Combeferre says with a tired smile. “He’s kind of on edge. We managed to screw up our entrances about seven times in a row.” 

“When is he not?” Grantaire realises a moment too late that he probably shouldn’t insult Combeferre best friend and the guy running the entire show. Combeferre only sighs, however and flips open a notepad of his own. 

Grantaire likes this part of the job even more than painting, if he’s honest. Actually doing the art is all well and good, but throwing around ideas and discussing how little touches to the set can add extra layers of meaning is one of the few times he feels like he’s actually contributing. Most people will never notice the way he constructs colour schemes to follow different characters or narratives through the show, for example, but that’s not the point. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to a performance of his own.

It helps that Combeferre seems to get it, and is more than delighted to throw in every little extra detail they can think of. They’re operating on a limited budget, of course, but he only vetoes Grantaire’s more ridiculous suggestions.

“So it’s a no on the cannon?”

“Afraid so. It’s probably a fire risk. And Lord only knows where we’d keep it.”

“What if I built a fold up Ikea-style one?” 

“Well then it would be a pretty useless cannon, and the barricade might just survive the show.”

Grantaire throws up his hand in defeat. “Fine, have it your way. I’ll stick to the scenery instead of incendiary props. But don’t blame me if we get yelled at for the lack of authentic weapons.”

Combeferre flicks his notes shut, and Grantaire notices with a start that the stage is empty. They’ve been talking so long even Enjolras has packed it in and gone home for the night. “Shit, sorry for keeping you.”

“Don’t worry about it. This is important. Any chance you can work a miracle and get those sketches done by the weekend?”

“In mercy’s name, three days is all I need!”

Combeferre raises an eyebrow at him, and Grantaire has never been one to back down from a challenge. “Then I’ll return, you have my word! Then I’ll return-”

“You must think me mad! I’ve hunted you across the years, men like you can never change, a man such as you!”

And it is so on.

By the time they reach the end of The Confrontation, both of them are standing on the tables which will function as tech desks and brandishing rulers menacingly at each other's throats. Grantaire is breathing heavily, but Combeferre is smiling and some of the ever-present tension has drained from his shoulders. That was the whole damned point, after all, so it’s definitely worth it.

(Neither boy notices Enjolras watching them from the wings of the stage.)

\--

 

 

Enjolras’ day is not going according to plan. 

He’s still had no word from any of the papers he’d written to advertising their production. The school office is being a veritable nightmare about printing tickets. And to top it all off, his leading man is nowhere to be seen. They should be fifteen minutes into rehearsal by now, and Joly is nowhere to be seen. They can’t afford to fall behind, not with so much riding on the show’s success. He’s so stressed out that he doesn’t even notice Bousett’s strained expression as he marches towards him, nor the redness ringing his eyes.

“Where in the fuck is your boyfriend?” Enjolras demands. “How are we expected to make any progress without a Valjean? Joly knows we need him today!”

Several people turn to look at them, and Courfeyrac steps forward to place a hand on his arm. “Enjolras, stop talking.“

He ignores him. “Tell him to get his ass here, because I’m going to kill him when he turns up, we’re already so behind-“

“Fuck, you haven’t heard,” says Combeferre.

“Heard what?”

Bossuet shakes his head. “I couldn’t find you to tell you, which is the only reason I’m going to let what you just said go. Joly’s in the hospital.”

Enjolras blinks, anger fast subsiding to a strangled panic. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He’s showing symptoms of recurrence. They want to keep him in overnight for tests. ‘Chetta’s with him now, but it doesn’t look good.”

“Jesus, Bossuet, I’m…“

“It’s fine. Really.”

It’s not, but he clearly doesn’t want Enjolras’ apologies nor his sympathy right now. Instead, he says “Do you want to go?”

“They won’t get the results back for hours yet, and apparently the idea of me let loose in a hospital with nothing to do is stressing Joly out. Let’s just get on with this, yeah?” He says it with a cheery grin, but the smile doesn’t reach Bossuet eyes, and if he’s a little unfocused that evening, no one says a word.

Enjolras calls time on rehearsal a little early and cycles straight to the hospital. It’s only when he reaches the door of Joly’s room that he realises he should have brought something. Would Joly want flowers? Chocolates? Before he can make a quick dash to the gift shop, though, Musichetta spots him through the glass and waves him in. 

“Fearless leader! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Joly’s sitting propped up on a mountain of cushions. Some terrible soap opera is playing softly from a television in the corner, although neither of them seem to be watching it. He looks pale and drawn out, but Enjolras can’t help the small stab of relief. He’d been picturing so much worse, Joly half-conscious and incoherent, or curled in on himself in pain. 

“I just heard. How are you?” 

“I’ve been better,” he admits. “Nothing hurts too much, it’s just all... I don’t know, heavy. And Musichetta is taking advantage of the situation to be cruel.”

“I won’t go and buy him chocolate from the vending machine because the nurses said no food for another hour,” she explains.

“She’s mocking me!”

“I told him he looked adorable in his pyjamas.”

“She’s got you there,” Enjolras informs Joly. “Deprive Christopher Robin of sleep for a couple of days and he’d be a dead ringer for you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Musichetta snorts, and Enjolras realises with a pang of shame that he really should have made more of an effort to get to know her. She’s the year below them at school, but has been coming to drama club since the start. It’s frankly embarrassing that he hardly knows his head of tech, end even more so that he doesn’t know Joly and Bossuet’s girlfriend. Anyone willing to put up with both of them at the same time must be quite something.

“Do they think it’s a reoccurrence?”

The smile slips slightly from Joly’s face. “We’re still waiting on the blood tests. They wanted to rule out a couple of other things before slapping the big M.E. on my charts, but I’m not holding out much hope. I’ve done this three times now, I know what a relapse feels like. Just keeping my fingers crossed that it’s a minor one, because fuck am I re-siting senior year.”

“God Joly, that’s…” He casts around for the right word and entirely fails. “That’s utterly crap.” 

“You’re telling me. Look, about the show-“

“Forget the show.”

Joly blinks, and then turns to Musichetta. “Did you clone Enjolras and send his double in here just to mess with me?”

“Not yet. I’m afraid he really did just say that.”

“God, I must be dying.” Joly looks at him earnestly. “I can’t do it, Enjolras. Even if this just turns out to be a minor recurrence or something else entirely I’ll be in and out of here. And if it’s something more serious… I just can’t commit to the lead role in a show this big. I’m so sorry for letting you down-”

“You’re not. Don’t be sorry, just get yourself better. We’ll work something out.”

“With four weeks to go? You can’t reshuffle the cast.”

“I know.” Enjolras spent the whole journey to the hospital thinking about it, formulating plans to switch up everyone’s roles and abandoning them just as quickly. “I’ve got a better idea.”

\--

 

 

It’s honestly a little terrifying how much treacle tart Courfeyrac is able to eat in a single sitting. Combeferre can’t help but raise his eyebrows as he orders a second slice. 

“What?”

“Where are you even putting that?”

“I need to get my strength up!” he protests. “Enjolras has decided I’ve got to do this weird vault thing over the gate and God knows I don’t have that kind of core strength.”

“And pie is the answer?”

“Pie is always the answer, my friend. You just sit there with your stupid perfect pecs and we’ll see who comes out on top. What are you even doing?”

Combeferre spins his laptop around. The two of them have always enjoyed coming to the cafe to work, something that Enjolras could never quite get his head around. But then Enjolras’ preferred study method is locking himself in his room for hours at a time and subsisting off whole pots of coffee, so he doesn’t get a say. Courfeyrac has always claimed that public places energise him, although that might just be the impressive range of cakes they have on offer. For his part, he’s always needed the judgement of strangers to shame him into actually getting some work done. It’s not homework that Combeferre’s been pouring over today, however.

“You’re looking at colleges?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs. “We’ve got to start applying soon and I’ve got to do it even earlier if I want them to consider me for scholarships. You haven’t?”

“It all seems far too adult suddenly. I’m not ready for that shit.”

“Well, we are adults. Or near as, anyway.” Fuelly and Bossuet have already turned eighteen, which is terrifying for a whole multitude of reasons, and the rest of them aren’t far behind. 

Courfeyrac only shudders. “Don’t even go there. I think I’m going to hold off on applying for a bit. What’s the rush, y’know? Why wish away the last show? And there’s no point in even looking until Enjolras has had a chance to think about it which isn’t going to happen anytime soon.”

His treacle tart arrives, and Courfeyrac digs in enthusiastically. Combeferre can only watch him and wonder if he really still believes what he’s saying. Because there’s a whole world out there just waiting for them, and sooner or later they’re all going to have to find a place in it. And that place may not be the same for all of them. Combeferre loves his friends, loves the more than anything, but he’s also not a child. There’s no getting around the fact that this is the year they’ll be forced to grow up. 

It’s something that Courfeyrac will never quite be able to understand, not with his college fund and confidence that everything will turn out okay in the end, but this is a big deal for Combeferre. Not that he’d ever begrudge Courfeyrac either of those things - hell, there have been times when his unrelenting optimism is all that keeps them all going - but that’s just not how Combeferre’s brain works. He’s spent the best part of a year waking up in cold sweat from dreams of college rejection, and he absolutely refuses to let them become a reality.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Courfeyrac grins at him, mouth full of tart, and Combeferre tries not to wince at the pang of guilt in his gut. Or to think of all the applications he sent off four days ago.

\--

 

 

Grantaire has just made up his mind to add another layer of paint when someone tugs one of his earbuds out. He whirls around with a start, and blinks. 

“Going to stab me with a paintbrush?” Enjolras raises a single eyebrow.

“You’d deserve it. Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I did yell at you. Twice.”

Grantaire shrugs in what he hopes is a casual motion, and hits pause on the music. “It’s usually just me back here. Wasn’t expecting company.” Least of all you. He’s not sure that Enjolras has ever set foot in the tiny dressing room he’s spent the last three years commandeering as a makeshift workshop before. There’s something jarring about his presence in the space Grantaire has carved out for himself. 

“What are you working on?”

“The backdrop for Stars. I was thinking we could use electric lights rather than just paint them on, and then we can gradually dim them and use the same setting for Javert’s Suicide, or any other scene you can think of that needs Paris at night. It’s going to be a bitch to set up and sync to the music, but if we can get it working…”

“That’s brilliant. Really. I don’t know how you do this.”

And the worst part? Staring at Grantaire’s half-finished skyline, Enjolras sounds nothing but earnest. Like he actually gives a damn about his creative input. Another first, and far more than Grantaire is prepared to deal with right now standing in this room that suddenly feels too small. Instead, he plasters a half-smile across his face and says “Is there something you want? Because I really do have to finish this.”

“There is. I need you to do something for me.”

Anything. “Okay?”

“It’s a favour. A big one.”

“Don’t tell me there’s another bloody scene you’ve added.”

“No. Joly’s in the hospital again.”

“I heard, poor bastard. Do they know if it’s serious?”

“Not yet. He seems okay though. Trying to convince Musichetta to smuggle him in chocolate.”

Despite his worry, Grantaire has to laugh. That sounds about right. “So what do you need? Me to go over there and run lines with him while the rest of the cast rehearses?”

“I need you to take his place.”

Grantaire must have misheard. “You what?”

“He can’t play Valjean. I’m asking you to do the part instead.”

He laughs. It’s the only thing Grantaire can do in the face of such an insane suggestion. This show is everything to Enjolras, Enjolras who knows full well Grantaire isn’t cut out for the stage, and how he wants him to play the lead. It’s ridiculous, it’s a terrible idea it’s… holy shit, it’s not a joke. There’s not a hint of mockery behind Enjolras’ eyes, and Grantaire’s laughter dies in his throat.

“Fuck, you must be desperate.”

“I am,” Enjolras admits, “But you’re still the right guy for the job. That version of the Confrontation you did with ‘Ferre last week was fantastic.”

“Wait, you saw that?”

“I was sorting through some costumes backstage, and you guys were kind of hard to miss. And if you’d done that three weeks ago in auditions, the part would have been yours from the start.”

This isn’t happening. That was just messing around, a stupid attempt to lift some of the stress from Combeferre’s shoulders at the end of a long day.  It wasn’t an audition, and it sure as hell wasn’t something anyone was supposed to see. Least of all Enjolras.

 “I’m a crap singer,” He offers weakly.

“That’s bullshit. And even if you hadn’t just proved that, everyone in the theatre will back me up. You sing while you’re painting, you know.”

“I perform while I’m painting.” The reply is out of Grantaire’s mouth automatically, and he realises a beat too late that he’s really not helping his case. He drags a hand through his curls. “There has to be someone else. Combeferre-“

“I need ‘Ferre as Javert. I don’t trust anyone else to play a police officer seriously.”

“Courfeyrac?”

“And who would replace him as Marius? I’d be starting two main roles from scratch.”

“Feuilly!” Grantaire offers in desperation.

“Feuilly can’t hold a tune to save his life. Even I’d do a better job.” Enjolras’s eyes on his are wide, his expression so at odds with the hurricane Grantaire has watched for three years. “It’s got to be you, Grantaire. Please. I need you.”

Enjolras says I. Not we, or the show, but I, and Grantaire knows that it’s time to stop lying to himself. There was never really a question here. He’s far past pretending there’s anything Enjolras couldn’t ask of him.

“Okay.”

“You’ll do it?”

God help him. “I’ll play Valjean.”

Enjolras smiles, wide and bright, and for one beautiful moment Grantaire forgets what a terrible idea this is. 

 

\--

 

 

It’s not just a terrible idea, Grantaire decides as he walks into the auditorium with Eponine the following evening. It’s quite possibly the worst idea in the history of high school theatre, and one that’s going to sink the whole damn production. What the hell had he been thinking? Grantaire’s no leading man. Hell, he’s not even an actor, not really, and when the whole thing inevitably goes to shit the whole club is going to blame him for ruining their show.

(“You know exactly what you were thinking,” Eponine had told him at lunch, smug grin plastered firmly across her face. “You didn’t want to let Fearless Leader down.”

“Shut up.” By the time this is over, he’ll have let everyone down.)

“Hey, R!’ He’s snapped out of his rapidly spiralling panic by a cheerful shout, and he looks up to see Jehan waving them over. “I hear congratulations are in order!”

“Commiserations more like,” he replies grimly, only for Jehan to swat him on the head with a rolled up script. “Oww! What the hell was that for?”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Feuilly says, appearing at his elbow. “He usually makes us put 50p in a jar when we say things like that.”

Jehan smiles cheerfully “It’s not my fault that you lot consistently doubt yourselves. But it’s R’s first day, so he gets a pass.”

“Lucky me.” Grantaire pulls out his own script, fully intending to spend this rehearsal hiding in a corner and trying to learn some of (frankly insane volume of) lines. Enjolras, however, seems to have other ideas.

“Listen up!” He calls from the stage. “I know the schedule says that we’re running Master of the House today, but we’ve got no Madame T. Bahorel never showed up for school today-”

“Jesus,” Eponine mutters in an undertone. “It’s a freaking epidemic. We’ll lose the entire cast by opening night at this stage.”

“-so instead we’re going to run Act One from the top, and get as far as we can. Questions? No? Great, starting blocks in two!”

Grantaire waits until Enjolras has climbed down and taken a seat in the second row to grab his arm. “Um, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing! I don’t know my lines, I wasn’t here for all the blocking…”

“Do what you can. We’ll work out the rest.”

“But-“

“R, I’ll to owe you one for this until we graduate, but if you don’t get your ass on stage in the next thirty seconds I’m going to start throwing things.” Enjolras opens his notebook and starts scribbling, a clear end to any conversation he might want to have. 

Grantaire can only nod. “You got it. Good talk.”

He’s barely scrambled to his starting position at the back of the stage (or at least that’s where he assumes he should be, judging my Fuielly’s frantic gestures) when the opening notes sound out from the cheap keyboard. Here goes absolutely fucking nothing.

It’s… well, it’s not good. It’s not an unmitigated disaster per say, but it’s not far off. He almost takes Eponine’s eye out during the prologue, stumbles over the words he knows so well in the face of Combeferre’s stone-wall of a Javert, and by the time Enjolras calls time, Grantaire is sweating through his t-shirt from the sheer effort of trying to keep up.

“Well that was certainly something,” Eponine smirks as they grab their bags. 

“If by something you mean a flaming pile of shit-“

“I don’t.”

“Well I do. This was a terrible idea. First thing tomorrow, I’m finding Enjolras and telling him to find a new leading man, because there’s no way in hell-“

“Grantaire!” Enjolras hasn’t moved from his seat in all the rush to leave. “A word?”

“Or maybe I’ll just let him fire me now. Even better.”

Eponine frowns at Enjolras, as if trying to work out how best to make him squeal. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Don’t worry. I can cope with the untimely death of my acting career.”

She shoots him a lazy salute and files out the door, and Grantaire waits until the last person has left to take a seat next to Enjolras. “So let’s have it. How bad was I?”

Enjolras doesn’t even bother to look up at him. “Bad.”

He knows that already, but still. Ouch. “So I’ll be back on set painting tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, I wanted to ask you about that. Think you could sweet talk the art department into lending us some juniors to pick up where you left off? I know it won’t be the same as if you painted them yourself, but I don’t really see that we have a choice within the time we have, and they usually lend us a class or two for costumes anyway, so it shouldn’t be too much of an ask-“

“What? No! I’m talking about going back to set design.”

Enjolras finally looks at him, then, brow creasing in confusion. “What? You’re quitting?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can! Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know, the last two hours of rehearsal? The fact that all you could think to say about it was ‘bad’?”

“That’s…” Enjolras shakes his head. “You’ve never done one of these things before. Everyone is bad on day one, everyone.”

“But everyone else’s day one was two weeks ago. I’m holding the whole show up!”

“Not if we make up those two weeks.”

“And how exactly do we do that?”

Enjolras taps his notebook. “I’ve got notes on everything you did tonight. Some of it was terrible, but a lot of it wasn’t. You hit every note head on, and you didn’t even use your script the last time we ran The Soliloquy. I’ve never seen someone pick up a scene like that so fast. And the rest, we can work on.” He looks at Grantaire expectantly, and it takes him a moment to realise what he means.

“What, now?”

“We have a stage.”

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” 

Grantaire realises, with a sudden start, that he has no idea what Enjolras does once he leaves the school for the evening. Does he go to the library and bury himself in work? Spray paint cartoons on the side of buildings? Take an intelligent, beautiful girlfriend on dates to artsy plays? Being stuck alone in a darkened theatre with Grantaire can’t be his first choice of activity. Never mind the fact that Grantaire’s sure he’s had this exact dream.

“I have a show in four weeks. This is exactly where I need to be.”

“That’s… I mean thanks for the offer, but I’m Eponine’s lift home. And we’ve got to go and pick up her brother, and… some other time? I’ll work on it, I promise.”

“Some other time,” Enjolras agrees, and something in his shoulders deflates. No doubt relief that he doesn’t have to waste any more of his evening on him. Grantaire shoulders his bag, and he’s almost at the door before Enjolras calls after him.

“Hey, Grantaire? Good job today. Seriously.”

He doesn’t trust himself to reply. 

 

\--

 

 

Bahorel stares at his reflection in the too-bright bathroom light, and does his best not to wince. It’s not a pretty sight. His eyes are ringed in purple shadows and sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. In short, he looks like crap. His mother, usually so wise to seventeen years of his tricks that he doesn’t even try to skip school these days, told him to stay home without so much as a second glance this morning and he’s damn grateful. There’s no way he could have faced it. There’s no way he could have faced anything more than lying in bed and wondering if his head is is going  to burst at the seems. 

It’s not out of the scope of possibility. He’s got two whole lives crammed in there, after all.

He groans, and scrubs a hand across his face. It’s far more likely that he’s simply going insane. The stresses of the final year of school and college application have gotten to him, and this show is just the tipping point to send him right over the edge. That’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense.

And yet.

Laughter and conversation and songs echo through his head in a language Bahorel doesn’t speak, and yet understands as easily as breathing. Spluttering candles and powder burns in his fingertips. The bite of a metal sliding into his chest, the detached surprise when blood bubbles from his lips even as pain rips through him and the world goes grey, and-

He chokes back a sob. None of this makes any sense and the memories that can’t possibly be real keep on coming, wave after wave of a life entirely apart from the one he’s been living. But faces, they make less sense still. 

_His friends._

_His brothers in arms._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claps are a thing, although not specifically to a theatre context. I’ve stolen the concept from British boarding schools (where the whole boarding house stands and applauds anyone who gets a date in an effort to embarrass them as much as possible) and decided that this is also a thing that American theatre kids do, because I say so. 
> 
> Joly has a relapsing / remitting course of ME/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. This is a chronic nervous condition, the symptoms of which include chronic lack of energy, mild cognitive dysfunction (both of which are made worse by physical activity), chronic muscular and neuropathic pain, as well as a weakened immune system which makes him vulnerable to the effects of other illnesses. Some people also have phases of disequilibrium which, combined with he pain and fatigue lead many to use a stick to aid walking when symptoms get bad. 
> 
> I don’t have ME myself, and wrote this drawing on the experience of helping a friend through relapsing stages as well as information from the ME Association. If I get anything wrong, please let me know.
> 
> https://www.meassociation.org.uk


	3. Chapter 3

There’s been a headache slowly building behind Jehan’s eyes all morning, the low throbbing kind that makes him want to screw his eyes shut against the daylight. That’s not an option, though. Not when he’s got a duet to rehearse.

A fucking love duet of all things. With fucking Courfeyrac..

It’s like some cosmic twist of fate, although Jehan’s still unsure if this counts as a reward or a punishment. He’d laughed for a solid minute when the casting lists came out, and then spent the evening with his head in his hand. Because he can be _Cosette_ , no problem. He can play the lovestruck teen who suddenly finds her world shifting to revolve around the boy that crashes unsuspectedly into her life. The challenge is going to be convincing him that it’s only an act. 

It’s not Courfeyrac's fault Jehan can’t get his goofy smile out of his head, or that he’s the only one who can make him smile on the bad days. Courfeyrac didn’t ask to be the subject of his stupid, all-consuming crush, and Jehan owes it to his friend to make sure he never finds out. It will pass, these things always do in the end, and saying anything will only make him uncomfortable.

And in the meantime, he’ll sing his heart out and kiss Courfeyrac when directed to and pretend it doesn’t mean a thing. Because that’s what friends do.

“Are you alright to take it from  the top?” Courfeyrac asks. “I want to try something different with the choreography, but if you’re feeling like hell-“

“I’ll be fine,” Jehan insists, because if Courfeyrac doesn’t stop being so kind he’s going to cry. “Can’t let Enjolras see us slacking.”

Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder to where most of the cast are rehearsing, and grins. “Eh, the Chief’s busy directing prostitutes. Seriously, you look like hell. Maybe you should sit down…?”

“I’m great, really,” Jehan lies. He flips the pages of his script before Courfeyrac can protest and starts to sing. “How strange, this feeling that my life’s begun at last…”

Courfeyrac stands to one side. In theory he’s pretending to hide in the bushes outside Amanda’s home and wait for his cue, but Enjolras isn’t looking in their direction and he’s not even bothering to  act. Instead, he watches Jehan with naked concern, which Jehan is doing his best to ignore even as the headache pounds to a crescendo.

_“…There are times when I catch in the silence the sight of a faraway song…”_

He grasps the back of a nearby chair and hopes no-one notices it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

_“…There’s so little I know that I’m longing to know, of the child I was in a time long ago…”_

Is he going to be sick? Courfeyrac is saying something, but it’s as if Jehan is listening to him from underwater and he can’t quite make out the words.

 _“…I’m no longer a child, and I yearn for the truth that you know of the years years ago-“_ There’s a hand on his arm and pinpricks of bright light behind his eyes, and Jehan realises too late that his legs are going to give out from under him. The last coherent though he has before he falls is that he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Courfeyrac, and then everything is smoke and gunfire.

\--

 

“Stand back, give him some space!”

“What the hell happened?”

“-any idea where the first aid box is?”

“Shut up, all of you!”

Jehan blinks, and the world swims back into view. There’s a smudge hovering persistently over his head and he frowns. Blinks again. The smudge sharpens into the image of Courfeyrac’s face, inches from his own and flush with concern. “Hey. Are you with me?”

His first thought is I could get used to this.

His second, as his brain kicks back into gear and the memories crash down in a breaking wave of technicolour, is a storm of fear-pain-friends? He sits up with a lurch and grabs hold of the nearest solid thing, which happens to be Courfeyrac’s arm. Oh God. _OhGodohGodohGod-_

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Courfeyrac's voice is gentle, despite his clear panic. “Breathe, Jehan.”

He takes a shuddering breath and looks around him, really looks. Courfeyrac's face is the same, but his hair is that bit shorter than Jehan had ever known his brother in arms to wear it, and that bit more tempered as well. He’s wearing an old band t-shirt without a hint of blood staining the fabric. The surface he’s sitting on is too smooth to be cobblestones, his friends clutch scripts in their hands in the place of those God-awful rifles, and there’s not a member of the national guard in sight. No blindfolds. No danger. 

“What happened?” he mumbles.

“You collapsed on us,” Feuilly says from somewhere in the gaggle of onlookers. They’re all watching him with concern, and not a hint of understanding. They can’t know.

“Well shit.”

“Do we need to call someone?”

“No!” Jehan says a little too sharply. There’s nothing any school nurse can do for him, and no way of explaining what’s wrong that doesn’t land him with a one way ticket to some lovely padded cell. “I just got a bit hot for a moment. Too many high notes maybe? I can carry on with rehearsal.”

“Like hell you can,” retorts Courfeyrac, and of course this is the moment Jehan realises he’s still clinging to him, face all but buried in his neck.

“I was kidding about the epidemic,” someone says, and it takes Jehan a moment to work out that it’s Eponine. “Bahorel better not have given us all some weird illness, Joly’s going to flip when he gets back…”

Jehan breathes in sharply. Bahorel, who is kind, and brave, and dead, and… _and not here._  

_Holy fucking shit._

He scrambles to his feet, ignoring the sounds of protest from Combeferre’s direction and Courfeyrac's attempt to grab his wrist. “You know what, you guys are right. I feel bad. Really bad. I think I’m going to go home. Right now. Yep, going home.”

Jehan is a good actor, really. It’s not his fault he happens to be an exceptionally poor liar. Everyone is looking at him with varying degrees of skepticism, and even Enjolras has raised The Eyebrow. So he does what any mature almost-adult would do, and makes a dash for the door before anyone can think to stop him.

He doesn’t stop running until he’s well clear of the school gates.

\--

 

 

It’s a sign of how dreadful Bahorel still feels that it takes him a minute to realise the pounding isn’t in his head at all. There’s someone at the door. Oh God, he can’t deal with this. Maybe, if he stays exactly where he is under his mountain of sheets they’ll give up and go away.

They don’t. If anything the banging gets louder, more insistent, and it’s another minute before he can summon the willpower stagger out of bed and down the stairs with the full intention of begging whoever it is to piss off.

Bahorel doesn't get the chance.

The moment he unlatches the door, Jehan launches forward and throws his arms around Bahorel’s neck in a blur of orange. 

“Jehan?”

“You’re alive. _Bordel de merde,_ you’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” Bahorel agrees faintly. “So are you.” There’s a chance he’s not crazy after all, and somehow that thought is even more terrifying.

They end up on Bahorel’s sofa under a pile of blankets so big it’s really a fort. A disney movie plays softly from the television although he’d be hard pressed to say which one. Bahorel is a little occupied dealing with both a distraught Jehan, and the fact that they both apparently died almost 200 years ago. It’s still insane, but he’s pretty sure that insane delusions aren’t contagious.

To be fair to Jehan, he gets over the shock a lot quicker than Bahorel had. He stopped crying almost as soon as he convinced himself that Bahorel was here and not laid out somewhere with a bayonet to the stomach, and now seems more enamoured than terrified.

“Are there more people like us?” he asks eagerly. “There’s got to be, right? It can’t just be us two in the whole world.”

“The others. Les Amis, I mean. There’s got to be a reason we’ve all ended up in same place again. But I don’t know why it’s only the two of us that remember.”

“I do.” The shine has fallen from Jehan’s voice. “We’re not the only ones who remember, we’re just the first. Because we were the first ones to die.”

Bahorel stares at him for a long moment. Then he reaches for his phone. 

“What are you doing?”

“This sounds like a conversation that requires pizza.”

“Just listen, would you? I’m right about this!”

“You don’t know that.” Bahorel remembers the chaos of those last few minutes. There had been no way of knowing which of his brothers still stood, and who lay unmoving on the cobbles.

“I know that,” Jehan says softly, “Because everyone else was still alive when the national guard took me hostage, bound my hands, and put a bullet between my eyes.”

A pause. “They fucking _what?_ ” The image is unacceptable, but Jehan only gives a shaky smile.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Nothing about this is remotely okay. Bahorel never considered himself violent, but he’s already wondering how much it would cost to fly to Paris, dig up any bastard that could ever hurt Jean Prouvaire, and kill them all over again. 

“It’s not,” Jehan agrees. “But we’re here now. And we’ve got another problem. We have no idea what the happened that day, and who’s going to remember next.”

“That’s not entirely true.”

“It’s not?”

Jehan’s school bag (and seriously, what teenager carries a battered leather satchel?) is sitting on the table. Bahorel reaches inside and hands Jehan his script. Jehan looks down at it, back up at him, and groans.

“Order the pizza. We’re going to need it.”

\--

 

It would be so much easier, Eponine decides, if she could just hate Cosette. The new girl who swanned into the school and immediately got a great part in the show. Who Marius can’t take his eyes off. She’s all Eponine has ever wanted to be, and does it without even trying. Her life would make so much more sense if she could just spend the rest of the year quietly despising her.

And yet.

And yet Cosette has never swanned anywhere in her life. She slips into the desk next to Eponine every trig lesson without fail, and makes a point of waiting by her locker so they can walk to rehearsals together. When Enjolras refuses to call time one evening until they get the choreography in _Beggars at the Feast_ right, Cosette is the one to tell him to his face that he’s being insane. She employs some nefarious means to discover both that Gavroche’s birthday is coming up, and he has a thing for peanut cookies, and bakes him a whole batch.

“Can I marry this girl?” Gavroche asks between enormous bites that evening.

“Hit puberty. Then we’ll talk.”

It’s simply impossible to hate her, just as it’s becoming impossible for Eponine to remember how she coped before they met. R’s the best friend a girl could ever cope for, but Eponine is stunned to realise that she actually likes the version of herself that wants to be friends with Cosette. That version who is starting to realise that letting people peak over her walls won’t bring the whole thing tumbling down, and who bites her tongue around her harsher self-loathing. If Grantaire has always reminded Eponine that she doesn’t have to change herself for anyone, Cosette makes her wonder if maybe she would enjoy changing for herself.

And that’s worth any number of jealous twinges. 

They spark just beneath her skin, and Eponine isn’t too proud to admit they surge to the surface whenever Marius smiles at her, or the first time Cosette sings _On My Own_ to a standing ovation from the drama club.

But she can cope. For the most part.

Cosette knocks on her door far too early one Saturday morning, and Eponine opens it in blinking confusion. She’s not sure how Cosette even knows where she lives. She doesn’t exactly invite people over, not with her parents lurking around and Gavroche’s stuff scattered everywhere. It’s probably R’s fault, and definitely something to worry about later.

“Hi,” Cosette smiles. She’s wearing a bright yellow skirt, and a sunny smile to match. Eponine is still in her pyjamas. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“What? No, of course not,” lies Eponine. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to ask you a favour.”

“Right.” A few seconds of silence pass before Eponine realises she’s being rude and opens the door open a little wider. “Come in. Do you want a drink? Some breakfast?” 

“Please.”

Eponine boils the kettle and finds a box of tea in the back of a cupboard, because she’s pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do when you have a guest, and gestures for Cosette to sit at the kitchen table. Her parents are out doing God only knows what and Gavroche isn’t likely to be up before midday so she’s not worried about the noise. She presses a mug into Cosette’s hand, picks up her own, and sits opposite her.

“So what’s up?”

Cosette laces her fingers around the mug and takes a sip before she replies.

“I’m going out with Marius tomorrow night.”

Eponine doesn’t choke on her tea, but it’s a near thing. “Like _out_ out with him? On a date?”

 Cosette only blushes slightly and nods. 

“That’s… wow. I can’t believe he manned up and actually asked you…” Eponine trails off at Cosette’s expression and she can’t help but snort, even with the pressure sitting squarely on her chest. “You had to ask him, didn’t you?”

“Yep. He almost fell off his chair.”

“That sounds about right.”

“So now I’m just entirely overthinking this whole thing. What if he doesn’t want to go out and he’s just too polite to say anything? I mean it’s Marius, that’s not out of the realms of possibility. I like him, ‘Ponine, like really like him, so what if I’m just projecting that and he’s been nice this whole time and I’ve misread it, and-“

“Hey.” Eponine reaches across the table to catch Cosette’s hands. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? The poor guy’s crazy about you. And you’re sort of disgustingly perfect for each other. You should be happy instead of freaking out. It’s a good thing.”

And the really weird thing? That’s not a complete lie. 

Cosette laughs. “Sorry. Freaking out is sort of my style.”

“No shit. So did you just need me to talk some sense into you, or…?”

“No. There’s something else. I’ve told you about my Dad, right? How he’s a tad overprotective?”

A tad isn’t the phrase Eponine would use. Cosette hasn’t gone into too much detail, but from the sounds of it, ‘paranoid to fuck’ would be closer to the mark. But thats just another thing Cosette has no idea she even has, let alone that she should appreciate it. Eponine’s parents wouldn’t know the meaning of the word ‘protective’. 

“Sure.”

“He’ll be pissed if he finds out I’m going on a date. Eat Marius Alive levels of pissed. So I told him I’m going to be at yours tomorrow evening. If Papa calls, could you tell him I’m in the shower or something?”

“You want me to cover for you while you go on a date with Marius?” Eponine asks a little faintly.

“…Yes. It’s a big ask, I know, but-“

“What are friends for, right?” Eponine asks, and when Cosette smiles she allows herself just one second of stupid, selfish heartbreak before returning it.

\--

 

“Who is it this time?” Bahorel asks as Jehan’s phone pings yet again.

“Feuilly. He wants to know if I want soup.”

Bahorel feigns offence. “He never offered me soup! This is favouritism!”

“He doesn’t want to wake you, idiot. Everyone knows you just sleep when you’re ill.”

“Yeah, true.” That’s why they’ve spent the weekend hidden away at Bahorel’s house instead of Jehan’s, where any number of well-meaning friends could turn up and realise they’re not ill at all. Just incredibly freaked. “We have to go to school tomorrow, don’t we?”

“They’ll only start to worry otherwise. The longer we stay here, the harder it will be to explain. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just…” There’s no way he can think to put it into words, the desperate desire to see with his own eyes that everyone’s alive, and the fear that they’ve somehow changed. Bahorel’s not sure how he’s going to be able to look anyone in the eyes. He doesn’t need to say it, though. Out of everyone, Jehan understands. “The show must go on, right?”

“The show must go on.”

\--

 

By some miracle, they have a full house for rehearsal on Monday night. Jehan and Bahorel are back and apparently over their… whatever it was, and Joly’s back form the hospital as well. Grantaire leads a rousing chorus of whoops and applause when he walks into the auditorium, leaning a little on Bossuet for support but grinning from ear to ear, and Enjolras can’t bring himself to break up the clamour. It’s going to be a good day, he’s sure of it.

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asks him. 

“Like a pincushion. But good. Excited to get to work.”

“Thanks, by the way. For coming back. And for letting me pass on your part.”

He shrugs. “It was never going to happen. Shit timing, yeah?”

“Yeah. You’d have been a brilliant _Valjean_ , though.”

“Fucking magnificent.” Joly agrees. “But I’m excited to see what R’s doing with it. How the hell did you get him to agree to step in.”

“I asked him.”

“No, really. How?”

“I just asked him. I told him we’d be screwed otherwise, and he said that he'd do it.”

There’s a funny frown playing across Joly’s lips. “Just like that? No bribes, or promises, or threats of extreme bodily harm? Weid.”

Enjolras flicks his eyes across the room to where Grantaire’s chatting with Bossuet. “I wouldn’t… Weird how?”

“R. He doesn’t do shows. Refuses to get anywhere near a stage. You should have seen the fuss he put up in middle school when me and Bossuet tried to get him to sing Jingle Bell Rock with us in the bloody talent show, of all things. He hates this stuff.” Joly follows Enjolras’ gaze for a moment, then shakes his head. “Guess he’s just a really big _Les Mis_ fan.”

“Guess so.” Enjolras is far from convinced. Yet another thing to file away under the the list of things about Grantaire that simply don’t make sense. “Hey, you want to see how he’s doing? How about we take the whole thing from the top?”

“Only if I get to heckle in the style of a snooty theatre critic.”

Enjolras smiles, despite himself. “I’d expect nothing less.” He’s still puzzling over Grantaire as the cast take their positions on stage, though. _What are you doing here, R?_

It’s something of a running joke in the drama club, Enjolras’ attention to detail. He’s been known to run the same scene over five, ten times to iron out some tiny flaw or other that no one else even noticed. So he really must be preoccupied to not even blink when Jehan gets his line wrong.

They’re far too small a cast to put on _Les Mis_ , really, and Enjolras is making it work through sheer willpower and the magic of quick costume changes. This means that almost everyone is on stage for _The Prologue_ to play prisoners. Today though, noticed by everyone but Enjolras, Jehan doesn’t look downtrodden or dejected. He grins throughout the whole song, and when it’s his turn to sing his voice rings out. “Look down, look down! They’ve not forgotten you!”

 --

 

The first thing that Gavroche says when he walks out the school gates is “Can you take me to the mall this afternoon?”

“Hello, darling sister. How kind of you to waste your life hanging around after me. How can I ever repay you?”

Gavroche only sticks his tongue out and climbs into the back of the car. From the driver's’ seat, R pouts. “No thank you for the darling best friend and chauffeur extraordinaire either?”

“With the way you drive? Please.”

“There is nothing wrong with my driving!”

The two of them bicker good naturedly as they pull out of the car park, and Eponine only smiles. Grantaire knows how grateful they both are that he’s a part of their life. Honestly, she’s not sure what they would have done without him all these years, and giving them the occasional lift home is the least of it.

“So, mall?” Gavroche prompts again.

Eponine shakes her head. “No can do. I’ve got to be at home this evening in case someone calls.”

“Ooh, is it your boyfriend?”

“Not exactly, no.”

It’s the third time Cosette’s asked her to cover for her evenings out with Marius, which no doubt means that the first two dates have gone well. Eponine doesn’t know. She hasn’t asked, and she’s doing her best not to think about it. There’s only so much misery she’s willing to put herself through in the name of friendship, even for Cosette. 

(And quite when ‘even for Cosette’ became a caveat, she’s not sure. Eponine only knows that she wouldn’t be going out her way to help just anyone date the boy she’s in love with.)

“I can take you, shortstack,” Grantaire offers to save her having to elaborate, and Eponine thanks him silently. He hasn’t asked her why she’s doing this, just as he’s never asked where her parents disappear off to, or why she sometimes turns up with Gavroche to sleep on his couch. And honestly, Eponine would love him just for that.

Four hours later, and Cosette’s mysterious Papa still hasn’t called by the time Granatire drops Gavroche back home. It’s not as if she’d wanted to spend the afternoon following her brother around comic stores, but it’s still frustrating. At least the evening has given her a chance to dent the mountain of homework building up. None of her teachers seem to understand or care that the show is slowly taking over her life, and Eponine is seriously behind. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Grantaire asks gently.

“Nah, I’m good. I’m just going to go over my lines this evening. Thanks for watching Gav.”

“Anytime.” And Lord, Eponine doesn’t deserve him.

She sings softly to herself as she makes them dinner, one eye still on the silent telephone. Perhaps make is too strong a word; Eponine heats up some leftover pasta and makes a mental note to get to the shops before the end of the week. 

_“Drink with me, to days gone by_

_Can it be you fear to die?_

_Will the world remember you when you-“_

The saucepan clatters to the floor but Eponine doesn’t hear the clang, nor does she hear Gavroche asking if she’s alright from the next room over. Instead, the sound of gunfire rushes in her ears. Someone is screaming. It might even be her. She takes a deep breath, tries desperately to tell herself that she’s only imagining the raindrops clinging to her skin and-

_And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you._

She’s going to throw up. 

It takes twenty minutes of dry heaving before Eponine can think clearly enough to even wonder if anyone else might remember the barricades as well.

It’s another hour before she remembers how Jehan had gotten his line wrong in rehearsals on Monday, and how he’s had the strangest smile on his face all week. She doesn’t really know him, not outside of drama club, and they’ve only shared a handful of conversations over the course of the show. But right now, Jean Provaire is Eponine’s best hope to convince herself she’s not mad.

\--

 

There’s someone sitting on the floor outside Grantaire’s apartment when he finally makes his way up to the fourth floor landing, hood drawn low over their face. The lift’s been out in his building for fuck only knows how long and it’s not likely to be fixed any time soon, not with his dick of a landlord. He freezes, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to fight off a guy here to rob him. That’s how long it takes for Grantaire’s common sense, or at least what passes for it, to kick in. There’s nothing in his flat worth stealing. And thieves probably don’t sit in corridors with textbooks scattered all around them.

“Enjolras?” he asks incredulously.

Enjolras glances up, hood falling back to reveal his curls. “Well it’s about bloody time. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting here?”

And what the hell? “Waiting? Did we have plans?”

“No, but I needed to talk to you,” Enjolras replies as if that were obvious, as if everyone should be expected to fit to his schedule without him having to say a word. “I’ve been texting you for the last hour.”

“My phone died. I was looking after Gavroche.”

“Eponine’s brother?”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause, and Grantaire clears his throat awkwardly. “So do you want to come in, or…?”

Enjolras blinks, and seems to register that he’s still sitting on the floor and probably picking up kinds of horrible diseases. It’s a good thing that Joly isn't here, he’d have a fit. “Please.”

Grantaire opens the door, giving the old wood a bodily shove when the lock doesn’t turn the first time. He tries not to wince as they enter the apartment. He can only imagine what Enjolras must be thinking about the dirty dishes in the sink and old pizza boxes still on the side. 

“Are you sure I’m not disturbing your parents?”

“It’s just me and my brother, and he works evenings. Don’t worry.”

Enjolras doesn’t ask why he’s living with his brother, which Grantaire is strangely grateful for. He’s not sure he can face his pitting expression if he has to tell the _alcoholics-don’t-make-the-best-parents_ story. But nor does he explain why he’s her, either. Grantaire’s expecting an explanation, because Enjolras isn’t one to burn daylight when he has a point to make. No doubt he’s here with a lecture about something Granatire did wrong in rehearsal, or he’s changed his mind and he’s kicking him out the show after all.

Instead, what Enjolras says eventually is “Why were you looking after Gavroche?”

And that is so not where Granatire was expecting this conversation to go. Three years, and he’s never had reason to suspect that Enjolras even knows where he lives. He’s here for something, and sure as hell isn’t smalltalk. “I watch him sometimes when Eponine can’t.”

“Why? I mean, that’s really good of you, but-“

“Because they need me to? Because she’s my best friend, and he’s practically my brother, and that’s what you do for people you give a shit about? Don’t tell me I have to explain the concept of basic fucking empathy to you?” Something in Enjolras’ expression falls, and Granatire immediately regrets his words. “That’s not what I… Look, forget it. What do you need? I know you didn’t give up your evening to come ask me about my babysitting habits.”

“I just… You don’t make sense, R. There’s a lot riding on this show and I need to know I can count on you to pull it off.”

Okay, no, screw regretting his words. Who the fuck does Enjolras think he is, that he can ambush Grantaire in his own flat and tell him he’s going to let everyone down? Like he doesn’t have a voice inside his own head to tell him that a hundred times a day? “You’re the one who asked me to step in!”

“Because you’re good!” Enjolras is shouting now. “You’re good enough an actor to lead any production we’ve ever put on. But you never once tried. And as far as I can tell, whenever you’re halfway good at something you give up! And I can’t let you do that, not this time.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission! But I guess your show is so fucking important-“

“It is!” Enjolras takes a deep breath. His cheeks are flushed, the way he only gets when he’s really angry, and his hand hovers between them in empty air as if he means to grab Grantaire by the shoulders. After a moment, he lets it fall back to his side. “Can you keep a secret?”

Grantaire nods in pure bewilderment, the sudden softness in Enjolras’ voice catching him entirely off guard. 

“They’re shutting the drama department down. There’s not enough funding to keep us going. Mabeuf didn’t retire early, he was fired, and after this show the whole theatre’s gone as well.”

“What?” 

“That’s why this show has to be a success. If we make it amazing, draw enough attention to ourselves with posters and a full audience and whatever, they might not be able to pull the plug.”

“That’s…” That’s the stupidest thing Grantaire has ever heard. “Why haven’t you told everyone?”

“Courf and ‘Ferre know. We agreed it would be a distraction. And that if this doesn’t work, people should get to enjoy the last play we do instead of being sad about it.”

“Enjolras,” he says, not unkindly. “This is never going to work. You know that, right?”

“We can try. Kids like Gavroche deserve a space like the theatre, and I won’t let them take it away without a fight.”

Granatire blinks, dumbfounded. Enjolras has been running them all ragged, polishing and perfecting the show within an inch of its life. He’d assumed that _Les Mis_ was some weird extension of his ego. Maybe that’s not the case at all. God, he’s been an asshole.

“What I said about empathy-“

“It’s alright. I know how I can get. It just… matters.”

“Then I’m with you. But I still think you should tell the others.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” Grantaire aims for a smile. “They deserve that much. And it’s still a totally ridiculous plan, but eleven voices are louder than three if you want to make noise, right?”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks, R.” Enjolras turns and heads for the door.

“You’re going?”

“I barged into your flat and yelled at you. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You don’t have to!” The words are out of Grantaire's mouth without his permission and he curses silently. “I mean, I could really do with your help on a couple of scenes. If the offer still stands, that is. I can pay you in take out?”

He’s sure Enjolras is going to refuse. Instead, he says “Chinese?”

“Mexican?”

“Thai?”

“Deal.” 

Enjolras drops his bag, and Grantaire has no idea if he should feel relieved or panicked. Both, he decides as he reaches for the menus. Both will do just bloody fine.

\--

 

Marius is sweating. Probably. There’s no way that he can subtly check without excusing himself to the bathroom for the third time in an hour, and then Cosette would think we has weird for an entirely different reason, and… okay, this is getting away from him somewhat. _Relax, Pontmercy, for the love of God._

They’re tucked in a booth at the back of a cafe Marius had no idea even existed until Cosette suggested it this evening. He’s lived here his whole life, and yet she somehow knows where all the best spots in town are after a matter of months. It’s not fair, honestly. It’s also entirely irrelevant. If pressed right now, Marius isn’t sure he could tell you what kind of food this place even serves. 

“So what about you?” she asks as their coffee arrives. “Is there a grand plan for the rest of your life?”

“To be honest, there’s not even a plan for the rest of this evening.” It’s not supposed to be funny, but Cosette’s laugh is possibly the prettiest sound he’s ever heard, so Marius isn’t about to complain. 

“Seriously, though.”

“I don’t know. Get out of this town for a start. Live abroad for a bit, maybe see if my French is actually any good outside of the classroom.”

Cosette stirs her drink. “Oh God I can see it now. You’re going to get one of those tiny but oh-so artistic flats with a balcony that overlooks the Seine. Spend your days drinking fancy wine and reading beautiful leather-bound books, until you’re forced to come home impoverished but having truly found yourself.”

“It’s stupid I know. Just a pipe dream.”

“They’re all pipe dreams until we do them,” she counters. “Paris. I can see it, actually. They’d love you over there. You’d make friends with all the sexy Parisians in no time.”

“I don’t know, I quite like the friends I’ve got,” he says because that’s far easier than focusing on the ‘sexy’ part of that sentence.

Cosette waves her hand. “Oh, they’d all come and visit and mock you horribly.”

“You really do know them.” He pauses and glances up at her, hoping his blush isn’t as visible as it feels. “Would you come and visit?”

“If there was an artistic flat? Sure. Not sure what I’d tell my Papa but we’d make it work. Somehow I doubt he’d believe I was at Eponine’s for days on end.”

Marius frowns. “Eponine’s?”

“He thinks I’m there now. It’s more trouble than it’s worth to tell him the truth, trust me.”

And God, Marius can practically hear Courfeyrac begging him to make a joke about being Cosette’s dirty little secret or something equally ridiculous. Instead, he screws up all the courage he can and takes her hand. “I do trust you.”

And when Cosette kisses him goodnight on his doorstep, one of the only coherent thoughts flying through Marius’ head is that he owes Eponine the biggest thank you ever.

\--

 

Jehan decides that Eponine deserves a lot of credit for processing the whole remember-how-we-all-died? thing a lot quicker than he or Bahorel had managed. Maybe processing is the wrong word. He’s not sure that this is something they’ll ever really be able to process, but she’s calmed down enough to debate the theories they’ve come up with so far by the time he’s finished explaining.

“There’s got to be some sort of cause to fight for!” he insists. “A second chance to right some wrong. Why else would we remember if not to learn from our mistakes?”

“Well maybe that mistake was getting involved in the fight in the first place. Or maybe this is all just some bullshit cosmic accident.”

“So it’s just an accident that this is all happening just as we’re putting on a play about it?”

Eponine had made the connection to the show a lot quicker than they had as well, and it’s all Jehan can do to wonder why he’s never spent any time with her before. She’s clearly the most switched-on out of all of them.

“I don’t know, okay? But it’s not this wonderful miracle you seem to think it is. This crap in my head is going to ruin my entire life.”

Jehan has no idea what to say to that. He shuffles a little closer to her on the sofa, and after a moment she rests her head on his shoulder. “It’s scary, I know. This whole other life crammed up next to your own, and all the terrible things that happened on the barricade…”

“Terrible things happen every day. But you’ve read the fucking play. We all have. And soon everyone will know exactly what’s going on inside my head and what a terrible fucking person I am.”

“You’re not-“

“What do I do when Marius remembers? Or Cosette? She’s playing me, for God’s sake! How do I watch her sing _On My Own_ , as if she’s not walking all over my heart and I’m not the bitch in love with her boyfriend? As if I didn’t hide that letter until I was literally fucking dying, all because I was bitter and jealous?”

“She’d never think that, not for a second.” Jehan promises, aghast. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “And if the play’s even slightly true, they both survived the barricades. They might not remember for sixty years. Hell, forever.”

“But everyone else will still know. You’re so fucking lucky you’re only a side character.”

“Side character my ass.” Jehan retorts, and is rewarded with a shadow of a smile. “You do love him, then.”

Eponine laughs shakily. “I’ve been gone on Marius Pontmercy since the first day of middle school. And apparently since 1832. Go ahead, laugh it up.”

Her voice is hollow, and Jehan simply can’t have that. “Want to know a secret?”

“Sure,”

“I think I’m just as gone on Courfeyrac.”

“Seriously?” Eponine glances at him. “Why the hell would you tell me that?”

“I know about your inconvenient, soul-destroying crush, and you know about mine. It’s only fair. And it’s not so terrible, see?”

She punches him in the arm without any real force behind it, and if it still hurts he’ll never tell her. “You’re really something else, Jean Prouvaire. Courf, huh? Who’d have thought. The two of us should get together with R and form a sad pining bastards’ club.”

“Grantaire?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve been his best friend for ever, and by some fucked-up trick of fate I spend every night pretending to be the guy. Trust me when I say he’s head over arse for our Fearless Leader.”

 _Enjolras?_ Jehan wants to demand. _R has a thing for Enjolras?_ But it’s really none of his business, not until Grantaire tells him himself or Jehan decides that some meddling must be done for the good of the whole drama club. For now he only smiles. “Why not? Ice cream and terrible chick flicks at mine this weekend. And absolutely no talking about our tragic love lives.”

“Replace chick with horror and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

And oh, Jehan likes this one. “Done.”

\--

 

“Alright everyone, listen up!” 

The pre-rehearsal chatter stops at once. Everyone turns to where Enjolras stands on the stage and honestly, thinks Grantaire, damn him and his stupid, all-consuming presence. Enjolras is a force of nature that simply demands to be noticed and draws in the attention of all around him without even trying. It’s one of the many reasons he’s in charge. It’s also ever so slowly driving Grantire insane.

“So I seem to have woken up in a parallel universe,” he’d whispered to Eponine in the corridor this morning.

“You have?” There was something strangely hopeful in her expression, but he hadn’t the time to dissect it.

“Sure. One where Enjolras eats Thai food on my sofa and and helps me with my lines and is actually a halfway decent teacher and human being. To me.”

“Oh, right.” Her face falls. “Weird.”

“You’re not helping!”

He’s been turning it over in his mind all day, and still half-suspects it was some mad fever dream. Because Enjolras doesn’t do patient, he doesn’t spend his evening going over the same fucking scene a hundred times until Grantaire feels confident in it. He certainly doesn’t lean in to Grantaire’s personal space to tweak his posture or physically angle his chin a little higher. He means, _Jesus Christ!_ Grantaire swears he can still feel the feather-light touch of Enjolras’ fingertips, and his best friends are being singularly useless at helping him make sense of it. 

The one universal constant in his life has been that Enjolras can’t stand him. Grantaire has learnt to accept that. Thrive off it, even, because it’s so much less terrifying than the alternative. And now even that has been thrown into question.

Honestly, if he keels over before the term is out, it will all be that blonde asshole’s fault. 

“Two announcements before we get started today,” Enjolras says. “It’s been brought to my attention that I’ve been, well, kind of a terrible president and director. And I want to apologise.”

If the auditorium had been quiet before, now it’s deathly silent. Grantaire catches Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a concerned glance out of the corner of his eye, all his attention is on Enjolras who clears his throat and folds his hands in front of him before continuing.

“For most of you, _Les Mis_ is the last show that we’ll put on at Corinth High. What I haven’t told you, is that there’a a big chance it will be the last one ever.” He explains about the funding problems, and how even the hope of putting on a performance so good as to change the board’s minds is a long shot. At once everyone starts talking, whispering amongst themselves and yelling various curses at the school board and the whole education system. Next to him, Eponine leans across to Jehan, and hisses “If this is the your great cause, I’m sure as hell not dying for it.”

On any other day, such a strange comment would certainly catch his attention, but right now Grantaire barely hears her. This is not any other day. For some reason he can’t begin to get his head around, Enjolras has taken his advice.

Enjolras allows the chaos for a moment before continuing. “I’ve been keeping this from you, and I’m sorry for that. Really. You all deserve better from your President. And I’m offering to step down, if that’s what you feel should happen.”

A beat of silence. And then Bahorel says “I think I speak for everyone when I say that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But-“

“You should have told us,” Cosette interrupts. “But we’re not going to kick you out over it.”

Joly smirks. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to get out of working on the show. I was hospitalised and even that wasn’t enough. And let’s face it, any show we put on without you would have no chance of keeping the theatre open.”

“Stop being an idiot and accept we’re keeping you,” Courfeyrac advises. “Don’t you know we’ve got a rehearsal to get on with?”

And God help them all, but Enjolras’ eyes are shining and Grantaire cannot deal with this. Because Enjolras just offered to give up the thing he loves most in the world, the day after Grantaire told him he’d fucked up. The universal constant is hanging by a thread. Thankfully he clears his throat after a moment, and when he speaks again it’s accompanied by a far more Enjolrasian grimace. “Right. Well. Moving on. The second announcement, regrettably, is Claps. Give it up for Marius and Cosette!”

Enjolras hops off the stage amid a roar of applause, lead unsparingly by Courfeyrac. Cosette laughs along while Marius does his best to hide his head in his hands, and Grantaire glances over at Eponine. She’s clapping along with everyone else and a small smile plays at her lips. A sad one, but real all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, kids!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, and for the short chapter - I managed to break my computer and lost (among other things) the rest of this work - hope you guys find the rewrite up to standard!

It’s really very lucky that when Bossuet remembers the barricades he’s in a hospital, where the sign of people having a breakdown in the corridors is nothing out of the ordinary. No one who passes spares him more than a second glance, or a quick frown that says Poor Bastard.

Less fortunate is that he’s with Joly.

Although he’s not an in-patient any more, Joly’s still spending a lot of time submitting to various tests and examinations. He sits through it all with good humour, but Bosuett can tell it’s starting to wear his boyfriend down. It’s all he can do to help keep Joly cheerful, and never let on how much he hates seeing him like this. Today it’s blood tests. There were some concerns about the combination of chronic fatigue and losing a frankly terrifying volume of blood, so the nurses wanted to keep him in for observation for an hour or two.

Ironically though, it’s Bossuet who is the more exhausted of the two. Between rehearsals, school work and worrying about Joly he’s not been getting a lot of sleep and it’s starting to show. He sits in one of the plastic chairs by Joly’s bed and tries desperately to learn the blocking notes Enjolras has written out on his script. The murmur of Joly and Bahorel’s voices (who’s in Joly’s history class is here to drop of notes) wash over him as he fights his own heavy eyelids.

There was a time when love was blind

And the world was a song

And the song was exciting

There was a time

Then it all went wrong…

Bossuet jerks awake, and his eyes land immediately on Joly. Oh God, he’s in a hospital bed, is he okay, is he alive, what the hell happened? Panic claws at his throat, and he grabs for him blindly.

“Joly!”

“I’m here. What is it?”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, love.” Joly cups his cheek with his hand and wipes a tear he hadn’t even noticed fall. The touch anchors him, somehow. “Look at me, we’re both okay.”

“You’re okay.” He repeats the words like a prayer, forcing himself to breathe. Joly’s just here for blood tests, he’s not hurt, and soon they’re going to go home. Bossuet knows this. He also knows that suddenly, keeping Joly from harm is all that matters.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know.” He swallowed thickly. “I had dream, I think. A really bad one. There were flags, and guns, and I couldn’t find you…”

Bahorel stands abruptly, chair scraping against the hospital floor, and they both jump. Bossuet had entirely forgotten he was in the room. “How about we go and get you a cup of tea? Calm you down?”

The thought of letting Joly out of his sight right now is like a knife to Bossuet’s chest. “I don’t need-”

“Tea. Come on.”

He places a hand on Bossuet’s wrist and all but drags him from the room, ignoring Joly’s confused shout after them. Bahorel marches him down the corridor, straight past the cafe, and doesn’t stop until they round a corner into a deserted stretch of hallway.

“You remember.”

“What?”

“Paris. The revolution. The barricades.”

Bossuet can only stare, his dream vivid before his eyes. “How did you-?”

“Because I remember too.”

Bossuet stares at him for a long moment, and then sinks down into one of the plastic chairs and buries his head in his hands. It’s real. Fuck, it’s all real. He’s not sure how long he stays like that, with Bahorel patiently explaining what they think is going on. Time loses all meaning in hospital corridors in the best of circumstances, and this is about as far from the best as its possible to be. Eventually he stands. “Joly. I have to tell him.”

“You can’t?”

“And why the hell not?”

“Because he doesn’t remember yet. He will, but right now he’ll just think you’re crazy, and that’s not the kind of stress he needs.”

Bossuet pictures it. Bursting back into the hospital, rambling about death and French revolutionaries with a wild look in his eyes. Joly won’t believe him, of course he won’t. Hell, Bossuet only half believes it himself and he can picture the barricade as clear as day. Joly will only look at him with wide, panicked eyes, and beg him to see at doctor, and-

And-

And God damn him, but Bahorel right. “I hate you.”

Bahorel pulls him into a hug, and doesn’t say a word when he starts crying wet blotches into his jumper. “Hate you too.”

 

 

_– Bahorel added Bossuet to the Group ‘History Study Session -_

Bahorel: We’ve got a new addition. Will fill you in properly later, but he’s okay.

Bossuet: Hi guys

Jehan: BOSUET HEY CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR DEATH! x <3

Bahorel: Would you stop doing that you’re freaking people out

Eponine: How are you holding up?

Bossuet: Freaked. Still convinced this is a weird fever dream

Eponine: Join the club

 

 

 

“We should do something tonight. Just the three of us.”

Courfeyrac words dissolve the companionable silence. He’s sitting on the edge of the auditorium stage, trainers dangling a foot or so off the floor. From the way that he’s kicking them back and forth, Combeferre would guess that he hasn’t been concentrating on his homework for some time now.

It’s a habit that the two of them and Enjolras have had for years now, spending their free periods working in the empty theatre auditorium instead of the library or an empty classroom. Courfeyrac claims that the space motivates him, and Enjolras would probably develop some terrible allergic reaction if he was forced to go more than a few hours without seeing a stage. For Combeferre, it’s simply nice to hide away from the ever-present rumble of high school in a space carved out by his best friends.

“What?” he asks.

“I mean it. Go and get food, or catch a movie, or, hey, I could pick up some brownie mix on the way home? It feels like forever since we hung out as just us.”

“And what would you call this?” Enjolras asks.

“Ahh yes, homework. Look at us, making memories!”

Combeferre has to smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Personally, I live for sitting and memorising cell cycles.”

“That honestly wouldn’t surprise me. So, are you guys in?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I can’t. Not tonight. I have to go over some blocking-”

He’s immediately drowned out by two groans of protest.

“This isn’t good for you-”

“C’mmon, Chief, the sky isn’t going to fall down if you take one night off-”

“- have to let yourself take breaks-”

“I have to go over some blocking with Grantaire.” Enjolras interrupts. “We’re so close to working out the sewer sequence and his death, I really think we might crack this tonight.”

“You’re working with R tonight?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras crosses his arms. “Why, is that a problem?”

“Of course not.” Courfeyrac’s feet have stopped swinging. “It’s just… I always figured…”

“We were under the very distinct impression that you kind of hated Grantaire.” Combeferre finishes for him.

“Of course I l don’t hate him! Why…?”

“The sideways looks?”

“The comments about him having no respect for your work?”

“That one time we did The Tempest and you two spent the whole tech rehearsal an inch away from homicide?”

Courfeyrac opens his mouth to list off another point, and Combeferre silences him with a quick shake of his head. Because Enjolras’ expression has crumpled from confusion to something that’s concerningly close to horror. And now that Combeferre stops to consider it, he can’t think of a single occasion they’ve fallen out since Grantaire joined the cast.

“Does everyone think that?” Enjolras asks. His voice is uncharacteristically small.

“No one thinks any the worse of you for it,” Courfeyrac answers quickly, which is really an answer all on it’s own. “You’re committed to the work you do, we get that, and the two of you… you’re just different, I guess.”

“Does Grantaire think that?”

Neither of them can bring themselves to answer.

“I don’t hate him.” Enjolras says again. “It’s… I don’t understand him. He cares so much, and he’s got so much talent to give and works so hard to make sure no one ever finds that out. I don’t get it, is all.”

Combeferre thinks back to the spark in Grantaire’s eye that appeared whenever they discussed ideas for creating the set, and the way he sometimes looks so sad in the moments he doesn’t think anyone is watching, and can’t help but agree. “Okay,” he says, in what he hopes is a placating tone. You know what you’re doing. Just be careful, is all.”

Before Enjolras can ask what he means, Courfeyrac says “Looks like it’s just you and me then, ‘Ferre! We still need to finish Black Sails, you know-”

“I can’t make it either. I have a thing with my parents.”

“What thing?”

“A dinner thing. We’ve got a table booked for eight, and I need to get this biology done before then.”

Courfeyrac visibly deflates. Enjolras, however, merely narrows his eyes and leans towards Combeferre. “What’s the occasion?”

It’s inevitable, after years of living in each other's pockets, that they all know a frightening amount about each other's lives. Enjolras knows, for example, that Combeferre’s family are strictly careful when it comes to money. It’s not that he’s ever had to go without, so much that both his parents know what that feels like, and see no point in spending money frivolously. He also knows that it isn’t a birthday, anniversary, or any other event that would warrant a fancy night out.

Damn it, Enjolras really is far too smart for his own good.

“It’s… Okay, I was going to tell you. Really. I just wasn’t sure how…” Combeferre hesitates, chews the words around his mouth, and decides just to spit them out. “I got a college offer. And it comes with a scholarship if I accept. A big one, full ride, nearly. Enough that I can go.”

Two sets of eyes blink at him. “Where?” Courfeyrac asks eventually.

“Colombia.”

Another pause. And then “Holy shit, ‘Ferre, that’s amazing!”

“Wow, you goddamn genius,”

“Congratulations!”

“Are you going to take it?”

That last one is from Courfeyrac, who’s still sitting on the edge of the stage.

“Of course, he’s going to take it.” Enjolras shoots back, before turning to Combeferre. “Tell me you’re going to take it.”

“I think so.” He lets himself imagine it. Getting to live and study somewhere where the rest of the world actually happens, far away from this sleepy town on the outskirts of nowhere. “Yeah. I’m going to do it.”

Enjolras grins and hugs him, and Combeferre finally allows himself to smile back.

Neither of them notice the cracks at the edge of Courfeyrac’s expression.

 

 

 

 

“Honestly, I thought I was supposed to be the one who needed looking after,” Joly says as Bossuet drops him off. He probably shouldn’t have been driving, in retrospect, but there was no way he could have explained that to his boyfriend.

“What do you mean?”

“You have a nightmare and freak out on me, Chetta calls me four times in the space offifteen minutes just to to check that everything’s okay. Let me tell you, I resent having to be the put-together one in this relationship. It’s not my natural role, and I really don’t think-”

“Wait, Chetta?” Bossuet backtracks. He suddenly has a horrible feeling about this.

“Yeah, she sounded a bit weird when I finally picked up, but she said she was just tired. Maybe we should speak to Enjolras and asks him to lay off her for a day or two.”

“Maybe.”

Bossuet might jump several red lights on the way home. He honestly couldn’t say. All he can think about is the fact that something is very much not okay, and that it's about to get even worse. And sure enough, when he pulls up outside his house, Musichetta is waiting for him on the doorstep. She pulls him into a hug and it’s they can do to cling to another. Her fingers dig into his jacket, perhaps a little tighter than is comfortable, but like hell is he letting her go. Because neither of them have to say a word.

They know.

 

\- Bossuet added Chetta to History Study Group -

Bossuet: You guys are going to need a new theory

 

 

It really should be illegal, Grantaire thinks furiously. This must surely be a violation of his human rights, or the constitution, or that bit in the Geneva convention about cruel and unusual punishments, or- Okay, so Grantaire may not always pay attention in government class. But he’s almost certain that it’s illegal for Enjolras to knock on his door wearing goddamn leggings.

Black, skintight leggings that leave almost nothing to the imagination. Not the curve of his ass, nor the definition of the muscles in his thighs, nor- illegal, all of it. Most definitely.

“On your way to yoga class, I take it?” he asks after a moment, in what he hopes is an ordinary voice.

Enjolras’ scowl, at least is familiar. Less so the blush that creeps up his neck. “I told you we were doing choreography today.” A pause. “Tell Courfeyrac and you’re dead.”

“I’ll take it to the grave.”

That seems to be enough for Enjolras, who picks up his duffle bag and walks into Grantaire’s flat. And immediately starts rearranging the furniture. Without stopping to ask for permission, of course. Grantaire really should be able to summon up more irritation than this, but honestly he’s still half stuck on the leggings thing. Instead, he gets busy clearing everything off the coffee table half a second before Enjolras tries to move it.

“You really can just tell me if you’re not a fan of my interior decorating style. I won’t mind.”

“I was kidding a second ago, don’t tell me you actually did forget-?”

“That we’re doing choreo? Got it.” Grantaire himself is wearing a pair of basketball shorts and an old t-shirt that was probably once some colour other than grey. “Although fair warning, if you tell me I suddenly have to learn tap dance then I’m quitting right now.”

Enjolras only shakes his head. “Don’t even joke about that. No, I was thinking we start with the sewers and work from there? I wanted to build in the fight scene with Tenadier that we talked about.”

“Sounds great!”

It isn’t. Grantaire regrets agreeing to this about three minutes into rehearsing.

Actually, he regrets it at the ten second mark, when Enjolras pulls of his hoodie to reveal that he’s paired the leggings with a tank top.

And if Grantaire’s a little distracted by that, it’s hardly his fault. And if he entirely fails to duck and Enjolras’ stage punch becomes a real one, that’s hardly his fault either.

He goes down, white hot pain blooming between his eyes. He groans, blinks, and stares into Enjolras’ panic-filled eyes that hover inches above his own.

“Crap, are you okay? You were supposed to move!”

“You were supposed to miss my face!”

“God, I’m so sorry.”

And that’s something Grantaire never thought he’d hear. “It’s fine. I’m fine, seriously. Help me up, would you?”

Enjolras hauls him to his feet. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Oh yeah,just peachy. I’m good to keep going.”

“Maybe we should just call it a day.”

“You what?” Because Enjolras never calls rehearsals when there’s still work to be done. Granatire has a sudden, vivid image of a sixteen year old who insisted on carrying on a tech run even as blood flowed freely from what later transpired to be a broken nose.

Enjolras shrugs. “This isn’t a great omen. And ‘Ferre andCourf have been not so subtly suggesting I should take a night off.”

“They’re not wrong.” Nor are they suggesting it for the first time. Quite why Enjolras has chosen now to start listening, he has no idea. Perhaps the pressure of the show has gotten to him and the idiot has finally cracked. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“What?”

“You’re off, aren’t you?”

“I-” Enjolras’ runs his thumb up and down his wrist. “It’s my turn to pick the takeout place. And I was thinking that maybe we could just… hang out? Do something normal? If you don’t want to, or if you’ve got work, or-”

“Tell you what,” Grantaire interrupts, before Enjolras changes his mind or the strange bubble universe he’s somehow trapped in collapses completely. “You get to choose the food, I get to choose the crappy film. Deal?”

Something that could be a smile flashes at the edges of Enjolras’ lips. “Deal.”

In the end, it makes no difference that Grantaire gets to decide what they watch. It’s one of the Harry Potter films, although he’s only half aware of the fact at all and would have no idea if he were asked which one. Because they don’t do this, he and Enjolras. Even accounting for the thawing of this last month, this is entirely different. Grantaire had been most surprised of all to discover that they actually work well together, but the key word in that sentence is work. Enjolras is here to make sure Grantaire doesn’t fuck up his precious show, and that he actually turned out be human is entirely irrelevant.

When this is over, they’ll go back to stiffly ignoring each other aside from the odd jibe, and everything will go back to normal. That’s always been the deal, however unspoken. And Grantaire’s made his peace with that.

Now, he has no idea what to think.

He is hyper aware of Enjolras sitting on the couch beside him, more so than any time before. He can’t even blame the leggings. Impossibly, Enjolras seems to be here because he wants to be, and God, this is so much worse. Because now Grantaire can convince himself that this relationship will survive beyond opening night, and that stupid, treacherous hope is going to suffocate him.

 

 

 

 

“There’s a joke here, somewhere,” Bahorel comments as Bossuet and Musichetta slide into the booth. They’re the last ones to arrive, which makes sense given how confused and scared she must be right now. Hell, he didn’t leave the house for three days when he first remembered. Musichetta is entitled to an hour or so of freaking the fuck out.

That’s what the rest of them have been doing since Bossuet’s text came through, in fairness. As insane as everything is, they’d thought there was some sort of reason to it, a pattern they could make sense of. Now even that’s been taken from them, and they’ve been cast out into the wilderness once more. It had been Eponine to suggest the diner; It’s one of the only places open twenty-four hours in town, and not one to ask questions when a group of teenagers pile in. No one asks how she knows this.

“A joke?” Jehan asks.

“Sure. Five dead revolutionaries walk into a diner. I forget how it ends.”

“Speak for yourself,” Musichetta says softly. “I didn’t die. And you idiots were the revolutionaries, not me.”

“What do you remember, then? If you didn’t die?”

Musichetta bites her lip, and Bossuet wraps an arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to-”

“No. It’s fine.” She swallows, and laces her fingers around the mug Eponine slides her. “I remember Paris. Meeting you all at the Musain, swearing every damned week that I was going to ban you from holding meetings upstairs and never quite being able to do it. I remember Joly making me swear to stay away the night before the fighting started, and promising me that he’d keep you safe.”

“He never told me that.” Bossuet murmurs softly.

It feels like far too intimate of a moment that they’re all intruding on ,and Bahorel clears his throat. They’re all in this together, whatever the hell this is.

“There’s not much else. I wasn’t on the barricade, but I was there afterwards. We cleared away the wreckage. One of the soldiers found out that I worked at the Musain and asked me to identify the bodies. I did. And that’s it.”

Her tone is far too matter of fact. Bahorel is sure that Musichetta hasn’t even begun to process the memories yet, and that when she does it may be even harder for her than for the rest of them. In all of this, Bahorel might well the lucky one. He never had to watch his friend die.

“So what do we think?” he asks, for to shift attention away from Musichetta than anything else.

“You remembered on the same night as Bossuet. Exactly the same time, as far as we can tell.” Eponine says. “That has to be important.”

“And I don’t think anyone else died before me.” Bossuet’s voice is stiff. “Your little remembering-in-order theory might still hold up. It’s just… I don’t know, wider somehow?”

“That’s not true. Gavroche.” All eyes flit to Eponine. “I know the stupid play, I know my brother was the one to die after me. So why the hell doesn’t he remember as well?”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure. Thank God. I wouldn’t wish this on… Gav doesn’t know.”

“Maybe he’s too young?” Bossuet offers. “If we didn’t start remembering until now…?”

Musichetta shakes her head. “We were different ages back then, and I’m a year younger than everyone else.”

“I don’t think it’s an age thing,” Jehan says thoughtfully. “Think about it, what do all of us have in common?”

“Shared psychosis?

“Parents who haven’t noticed we’re in a diner at midnight?”

“Fantastic music taste?”

Bahorel, however, realises at once what Jehan is getting at. It’s something they’d talked about briefly that first day, and then ignored as one level of weird too high to process. “We’re in the play.”

Everyone falls silent, except for Musichetta who simply says “Shit.” And if that doesn’t sum the whole situation up succinctly, nothing does.

“Does this mean if we’d just done that bloody Kafka show none of this would have happened? Because if so I’m entirely happy to blame Enjolras,” Eponine offers.

“That does pose an interesting question.” Jehan’s eyes are distant. “Do we suddenly remember because we’re doing this show, or are we doing this show because we remember? And if so to what end? And if the show acted as some sort of trigger, are they really our memories, or just ones we’ve inherited somehow? We could just be radios picking up stray snatches of frequency meant for somewhere else.”

Bahorel, along with everyone around the table, stares at him. “Where are you getting all of this from?”

Jehan reaches under the table and pulls a book out of his battered satchel. They all strain to read the title.

“Soul Weaving: Exploring the Tapestry of our Incarnations?” Eponine’s voice seems an octave higher than usual. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, the book’s terrible.” Jehan agrees. “Full of rubbish about the ‘veil of existence’ and the ‘soul communities’ or whatever, but a lot of people believe in this stuff. The library’s got a whole section on it. And I don’t think we’re in a position to dismiss anything straight out of hand.”

“The library?”

“Yeah.” Jehan shrugs defensively. “When shit hits the fan, I always fall back on the old motto ‘What would ‘Ferre do?’, and he’d actually try and research this stuff. So yeah, I went to the library, what’s wrong with that?”

“Hold on, is that why you wore Combeferre’s clothes every day during the exams last year?” asks Bousset.

Eponine snorts. “Actually, I think in this case ‘Ferre would get lost in some Wikipedia black hole or weird blogs about people who think that they’re Cleopatra until four in the morning and sleep through first period.”

“I may have have done that as well,” Jehan admits.

“Which one?”

“...Both?”

And there’s honestly nothing to do at that stage but laugh. They may not have any answers, Bahorel thinks with a pang of fondness, but they sure as hell have each other. Past lives or not, Jehan is still Jehan. They all are. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll be alright.

 

(They’re all still sitting there forty minutes later, when the bell above the door rings to announce another customer. Eponine is sitting with her back to the entrance and doesn’t think anything of it. Not until Jehan across from her pales and sits bolt upright.

“Hi! He squeaks. What are you…? We were just… this isn’t…”

“I’m looking for the dead French support group.” Feuilly's voice is strained and his eyes read, but there’s a smile stretched across his face all the same. “Is this the right place?”)


	5. Chapter 5

It’s Feuilly who suggests The Rules, once everyone has had a chance to calm down. Bossuet panics, squeaks and says “Dead what?”, and Feuilly only smiles and tells his story. How he’d remembered the barricades, how he’d noticed their strange behaviour and put two and two together. 

“It’s amazing that we haven’t all been locked up,” comments Eponine.

Everyone laughs, but Feuilly only nods. “You guys are far too obvious. You suck at this.”

“Rude,” Musichetta shoots back without any real venom.

“I worked out you all and your shared delusions in two hours.”

“In fairness, you do happen to share the delusion too.”

Feuilly smiles tightly. “Maybe so. But we need to be more careful. If I noticed that something was seriously wrong, who else might. We need rules. Has anyone got a pen?”

Eponine does, and a notepad as well. (Jehan also produces a notebook, but there are flowers pressed between almost every page and no one can quite bring themselves to interrupt whatever aesthetic he’s going for.) She flips through French grammar notes to the first empty page, and writes in big block letters.

“ _ Sad Pining Bastad Club Rules _ ?” Musichetta reads over her shoulder. 

“It’s kind of an inside joke.”

“And we meet every Friday with ice cream and tales of woe.” Jehan adds delightedly. "Open invitation to all!"

“Rule One,” Feuilly says, before the whole conversation can be derailed. “We check in with eachother every day. This stuff? It’s crazy, and no one gets left to deal with it on their own.”

“We’re not going to crack,” Bahorel says, not unkindly.

“ _ I _ might. And that’s not a chance we can take. I’m not losing anyone, not again.”

And there’s nothing anyone can say to that. If this is Feuilly way of coping, then they will go with it for as long as he needs them. 

Musichetta places a hand on his arm. “No one is losing anyone.”

“That’s Rule Two.” Eponine speaks softly, eyes on the plastic table top. “We move on.”

“What?’

“The barricades. The revolution. That wasn’t us, or at least it isn’t any more. Either way, I don’t want any part of it. You guys find some new excuse to get yourselves shot? Fantastic, count me out. We get to make our own decisions about our own lives, and no one gets to tell us otherwise.”

Jehan immediately frowns. “What about the cause? The reason we’re all back. There has to be something we’re meant to do with it.”

“How about live our fucking lives?”

“I’m only saying-”

“I vote for living, if it’s all the same,” Joly interjects, and Musichetta nods.

Feuilly only says “I’m not losing anyone,”again,  and Eponine writes the words  _ Move On _ without further objection. 

There’s no argument at all for Rule Three.

_ ‘Marius and Cosette can never know.’ _

_ \-- _

 

“Save our drama department, come and see a show. Corinth High presents  _ Les Mis _ , opening on the fifth!” 

A woman takes a flier as she walks past, although Enjolras is pretty sure that it’s out of politeness rather than any real interest in high school theatre. Still, there’s always a chance she’ll read it and come along. Half the people ignore him altogether. Which takes some effort, given the fact that the drama club have occupied half the high street in full costume.

He has to hand it to Grantaire, this idea of his is far more effective than anything he could have achieved on his own. If nothing else, the whole town knows what they’re trying to achieve. If there’s any luck to the universe at all, a few of them might even show up.

“How we looking?” Enjolras asks as Joly, Bahoral, walk up to him. They’re hands are empty, meaning that either they’ve already handed out their fliers, or there’s a very full rubbish bin somewhere around the corner. 

“Anachronistic. Out of place. Like a group of teenagers dressed up like revolutionaries. Or did I get the dress code wrong?”

Bahoral ignores Joly. “Pretty good. People seem sympathetic, those that stop and talk at least. And we’re definitely drawing a crowd.” 

He nods towards the other end of the street, where they’ve commandeered a corner and transformed it into a makeshift stage. Combeferre and Grantaire and standing on fruit crates and waving plastic swords at each other as they sing through  _ The Confrontation. _ Street shows had been one of Grantaire’s ideas as well. For all his earlier protests at being part of the production, he’s in his element. Even from here, Enjolras can hear the growl in his voice. 

Bahorel is clearly thinking the same thing. “Remind me why he never auditioned for shows before?”

Two weeks ago, Enjolras would have said “Because Grantaire doesn’t care about anything.” Now, he has no idea. Instead, he turns to Joly. “No Courf?”

He shakes his head. “No sign of him.”

This is the third time in a week that Courfeyrac has failed to turn up. He was a no-show at Tuesday’s rehearsal, and there had been no sign of him at their unofficial Wednesday night diner meeting.

“Do you think he’s caught the bug that’s been going round?” Bahorel asks with a meaningful look in Joly’s direction, one that Enjolras can’t begin to decipher. 

“No. He’d have made more of a fuss. It’s not- it’s not that.”

Whatever it is, Courfeyrac needs to get over it and get his ass back to rehearsals. Enjolras knows his reputation, and he can’t bring himself to regret the hard line he takes to bring the very best out of their productions. That doesn’t mean he enjoys chewing out his friends. It’s never been a problem as far as Courfeyrac is concerned, and that’s the only reason that Enjolras hasn’t knocked down his door demanding an explanation yet. Courfeyrac has given more to this club than anyone over the years. He deserves the benefit of the doubt for a couple more days.

If nothing else, Enjolras can talk to him this weekend. Courfeyrac has never been one to miss a party.

“Hey, fearless leader!” 

Enjolras blinks. He hadn’t even noticed Combeferre and Grantaire finish their set and approach. “Good job, you guys.”

“Funny, you should say that.” Grantaire is grinning, face slightly flushed, and Enjolras wonders if he’s ever seen him this outwardly happy. The concept of a Grantaire who smiles at him, the real thing and not just a spiteful lear, is something that Enjolras doesn’t know quite what to do  with. And he’s been trying to work it out, really. If he’s entirely honest, the puzzle of Grantaire has taken up far more of his time than can be considered healthy.

“Why?”

“There was this director who saw us do _The Confrontation._ We had no idea he was watching, we were just doing our thing, you know? But this guy, he comes up to me afterwards. Little bit of an asshole, very pretentious. But he says that it was good. Really good. Enough to count for an audition, and he wants to cast me in the lead for his show next month. Crazy, right?”

“I… what?” Panic floods his brain. Grantaire has always been better than he believes, and Lord knows he deserves credit for that. But he can’t just leave the show, can’t just leave Enjolras. Forget the impossibility to training a new leading man in under two weeks, the idea of putting on this show without him is unthinkable. Who does this guy think he is? “You can’t, we open in two weeks, you’ve got to-“

Enjolras forces himself to take a deep breath, get a hold of himself. It’s enough time to notice the strained look on his friends’ faces. “What?”

Joly breaks first. The rest follow in quick succession, dissolving into laughter.

 “What’s so -  _ oh _ . Right. I get it. I’m the asshole director. Very funny.”

“I only said a  _ little bit _ of an asshole,” says Grantaire.  “And it was, actually. I’ve never seen someone’s face turn that particular shade of grey before. Relax, fearless leader. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Enjolras forces himself to smile.  “Really. Is that right? Hey, Ferre, do me a favour, would you?”

“Sure?”

“Next time Grantaire scares me like that, whack him.”

\--  
  
  
  


There are bad days, and there are  _ bad days _ . The former, Joly can cope with. He can power through on a combination of adderall and caffeine and brave faces. The latter are a different matter entirely. 

He drags his eyes open, and everything hurts. It’s a deep-seated ache somewhere in his bones, a thrumming presence that refuses to be ignored. What’s more, Joly is tired. There’s no energy to his limbs, and it takes far more effort than it should to roll over and check the time. It’s a bad day, that much is clear.

There’s no way he’s making it to school today, much less the oh-so important full run-through that Enjolras has scheduled for this evening. _Shit._

He fires off two quick texts, one to the school office and another to their fearless leader. True to his word, Enjolras has been nothing but supportive throughout this whole thing. He has never once begrudged Joly for his patchy attendance, nor the need to train up a new leading man. He’s changed the choreography and backstage set-up to accommodate Joly’s stick. More than that, he’s treated Joly like normal. Hell, everyone has, but there’s something particularly touching about Enjolras’ refusal to change his ‘director from hell’ persona for Joly’s sake. He will never ask Joly to do something he doesn’t feel up to, but woe betide him if he forgets a line.

It's the little things, like Enjolras repeatedly smacking his script against his forehead in exasperation, that stops Joly from losing the plot entirely. 

He knows the drill by now. Countless doctors have explained to him over the years that treating ME is as much about the mental as the physical, and Joly wholeheartedly agrees. Depressive spirals are all too common. He’s seen it happen to kids on the ward. Hell, Joly has teatered on the edge of more than one himself. His friends, and his wonderful, patient partners are the reason it’s never gotten more serious. That, and a lot of bloody hard work on his own part, thank you very much. 

Routine is crucial. He’s not leaving the house today, but even still, he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Maybe he doesn’t trust himself in the shower, but he still brushes his teeth. He pulls on a pair of old sweatpants and the first t-shirt that happens to be lying around, but it still counts as getting dressed. Joly has learned to count the little victories as absolute wins, and he’s proud of a very productive day by the time he makes it downstairs and flops onto the sofa. 

He drifts in and out of sleep for most of the day. Netflix plays one outdated episode of Friends after the other, and Joly knows them well enough to follow the jokes well enough without any real effort. It’s well past lunchtime when he blinks awake, but he should go and make some food anyway. ‘Make’ might be a generous term - Joly is an unmitigated disaster in the kitchen at the best of times - but it doesn’t make a chef to throw some cheese in a sandwich and pretend it’s a real meal. He’s just contemplating getting up when there’s a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” he yells. If it’s someone here to steal his stuff, Joly is in no position to stop them, and anyone visiting will know that he’s in no position to stand on ceremony.

Its Bossuet, with a rucksack slung over one shoulder and a sheepish grin across his face. “Hello, handsome. How are you doing?”

“Just peachy. What are you doing here?”

“Do I need an excuse to pop by?”

“You do at two thirty on a Friday.”

“I’ve got a free afternoon.”

Joly props himself up on his cushions. He knows Bossuet’s timetable back to front, just as he knows the exact expression his boyfriend pulls when he’s lying. “Try again.”

Bossuet’s mouth opens, then closes again. “Okay, fine. So technically there’s a shop class I should be in-”

“Bossuet-”

“-but I’m way ahead on that stupid clock project, and Brewster never takes attendence provided we get the work done-”

“-we talked about this, I don’t want you or 'Chetta putting your lives on hold-”

“Just let me keep you company for a bit. Just for this afternoon, yeah?”

_Goddammit._ Bossuet’s puppy eyes should be registered with the Pentagon as a dangerous weapon. “Okay. Just be back at school in time for the runthrough, yeah?”

“No fear.” Bossuet’s smiles and dumps his bag on the table. “I have no desire to watch Enjolras’ face turn purple today. Have you eaten?”

“I was just about to do a sandwich.”

“I’m on it. Bacon sound good?”

“I can do it.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” 

Bossuet disappears into the kitchen before Joly can protest his culinary competence. Maybe that’s  for the best. The last thing they need is an oil fire on their hands. And it ‘s nice to let Bossuet take care of him, even as he feels a little guilty for the trouble. As a general rule, Joly can’t bear fussing. His parents are bad enough, and it always feels one step removed from pity. Somehow it's different when it’s Bossuet.

Musichetta helps Joly forget that he’s ill with her easy smiles and wicked sense of humour. Bossuet reminds him that he is, and that its okay. Lord help him, but Joly would love them both for that alone. 

The afternoon is spent in much the same way as the morning, except this time Joly has a warm, comforting bloc of boyfriend to lean against. It’s easy, peaceful.  Bossuet runs a hand idly through Joly’s hair and makes ridiculous comments at the television, and it's easy to pretend that this is all there is. No trips to the hospital, no play to obsess over, no eyes catching his cane as he walks down the street.

None of the weirdness that has been slowly creeping into their lives without permission.

Joly is far from stupid, and he’s always had a knack for reading people, especially the people that he loves. It’s no surprise that his friends are on edge with opening night fast approaching and college applications to consider, but there’s a strain behind several pairs of eyes that he simply cannot trace. 

His partners are no exception. Musichetta and Bossuet talk in hushed whispers when they think he’s asleep in hospital, eyes darting nervously back and forth. Once, returning to the theatre in search of a misplaced jumper, he spotted them sitting on the edge of the stage in silence, Bossuet’s hand running gently over Musichetta’s shoulders.

They don’t do jealousy, the three of them, and that’s not what this is. There’s no place for it in their relationship, and Joly doesn’t begrudge the time they spend together when he’s not around. That doesn’t mean they’re not hiding something from him. 

He can only assume that they’re more worried about his health than they let on around him. It’s the only thing he can think of that would prompt a cheery change in conversation the moment they notice him. He just wishes to God they would talk to him about it. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. Leaning against Bossuet’s chest, he feels so much as hears his hummed response. 

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay? Generally, I mean. In life and… and stuff.” So words have never exactly been his forte.

“Me? I’m fine, always.”

“You look stressed.”

“Thanks, it's the stress.” Joly starts to protest, and Bossuet sights. “Okay, yeah. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment. I’m worried about you, of course I am. And the show is taking up a lot of time, and Dad keeps talking about weekend trips to various college towns like I don’t know exactly what he’s hinting at. But it’s fine. I’m good.”

This time, Joly doesn’t even have to look at Bossuet to know that he’s lying. He could push, demand an explanation and a bit of goddamn communication. Instead, he lets it go. Bossuet has always told him things when he’s ready, and quite frankly Joly doesn’t have the energy to deal with a full blown confrontation if that’s where things are headed. 

His partners have done so much for him. It’s the least Joly can do in return to give them some time. And whatever is going on, they will deal with it together. 

They always have. 

\--  
  


 

Courfeyrac is sitting on his bed, and doing his best impression of a deaf man. Well, a selectively deaf man at any rate. His music, turned as high up as it will go, pounds through cheap headphones and if he really tries, he can pretend that it’s all he can hear. He can pretend that he can’t hear his ringtone, nor see the contact name flashing across the screen.

It’s Enjolras. Again. He’s been calling on and off all day, and Courfeyrac knows he can’t ignore him forever. Soon enough, he’ll get over himself. He’ll pick up and apologise, and be back in the theatre with the big smile that everyone expects plastered across his face. But not yet. Right now, Courfeyrac just needs a little more time away from his best friends.

He needs just a little more time to wallow in his pathetic, selfish, self-pity. 

Despite all the jokes, Courfeyrac isn’t an idiot. Not by a long shot. Oh sure, he’ll never have Enjolras’ genius or Combeferre’s carefully-sharpened intellect, but he’s not stupid. He knows that what they have can’t last forever. Sooner or later, their circle of friends will drift apart and they will all scatter to their separate futures. He had just never expected the most important thing in his life to begin to unravel so fast, or with such carelessness. 

They were supposed to go off together. Get a shitty flat somewhere, and change the world each day at a time. It would be tough, it would be difficult, but none of that would matter because the three of them would be in it together. 

Enjolras is throwing away his place in their future for nothing. Combeferre has made other arrangements without so much as a backwards glance. And Courfeyrac must be an idiot after all, because he actually believed that the plans they once made still meant a damn. 

He’s happy for them, really, and so damn proud as well. ‘Ferre is going to New York, for Christ’s sake. He’s going to do great things, and Courfeyrac will be the first to line up and tell him he deserves it all. It’s not enough, though, not to plug the resentment that leaks through Courfeyrac’s seams whenever he thinks about it, no matter how hard he tries. He doesn’t want to feel like this, hates the fact that he begrudges his friends and incredible future because it’s not the one he pictured. But it’s there.

Tomorrow, Courfeyrac will lock this ugly, bitter part of himself away in a box and pretend that it never existed. He’ll go to Fueilly’s party and be his usual self. Today, it needs to burn itself out.

His phone beeps again, and Courfeyrac picks it up to hurl the damn thing across his room. It’s not Enjolras.

_ So I have this theory that Tommy Wiseau is a vampire. Hear me out, okay? _

He snorts, despite himself. Introducing Jehan to The Room was a terrible, terrible mistake. His love of all things weird has clashed firmly with his love of all things conspiracy theory, and it sounds like he’s going to be hearing about a secret coven of vampires living in San Francisco for months now. 

It’s Jehan who Courfeyrac finds himself turning to when he can’t quite trust himself in the company of Combeferre and Enjolras. He never presses for an explanation when he’s clearly in a foul mood, only smiles and finds some way to take Courfeyrac’s mind off his issues without him even noticing. He’s endlessly patient, and so utterly fucking good that Courfeyrac can’t quite believe he’d want to spend time with him.

_ You always were best of us, Jean Prouvaire. _

Okay, so Courfeyrac knows he’s lying to himself. He’s found himself spending more and more time with Jehan, and its not for his vampire theories.

Jehan who is all kindness and earnest, unabashed grins.

Jehan who reminds Courfeyrac of a better version of himself he never quite managed to meet, and who he has to remind himself to keep at arms length. Because Courfeyrac breaks things. Inevitably and irrevocably. And to break Jean Prouvaire would be unforgivable.

It’s what he does. Courfeyrac may have more Claps than anyone else, but he also has the biggest trail of destruction and general poor decisions left in his wake. His love life, if it could even be called that, is a history of short flings and partings on bad terms. It would be beyond cruel to drag someone he actually cares about into that history. Hell, look at the mess with Enjolras three summers ago. It was only blind luck and Combeferre’s intervention that allowed Courfeyrac to keep his best friend, even to make it out of the whole fiasco on speaking terms.

He will not risk that again. 

No matter how warm he feels when Jehan smiles at him.

The song playing through his headphones comes to an end, and is replaced with  _ A Heart Full of Love _ . Courfeyrac groans aloud. He’d forgotten that he uploaded the entire soundtrack to his music, and now the shuffle function seems to be mocking him. As if this day couldn't get any worse, he own music is conspiring against him.

He picks up his phone, thumb hovered over the skip button. Instead, he finds himself singing along to Jehan’s introduction. 

_ There are times when I catch in the silence _

_ The sigh of a far away song _

_ And it sings of a world I long to see _

_ Just out  of reach _

_ A whisper away- _

Courfeyrac’s world turns white. 

Jehan answers the phone, groggy from sleep and baffled as to why anyone would be calling him at -  _ Jesus _ , 2:30 in the morning. “Hello? Courf? What… slow down. You’re not making any sense.”

Courfeyrac’s voice is fragmented, and punctuated by shuddering gasps. Almost as if he were sobbing, or - no, he’s laughing. He’s hysterical. 

“They wrote us out, Prouvaire. Those bastards wrote us out of the fucking play!”

\--  
  


 

Feuilly has been the unofficial host of all drama club parties for almost three years now. This is largely due to him having both a basement and a mother willing to give her son a degree of freedom, and for the most part it’s worked fantastically well. They use his place for after-show parties, we’ve-got-some-extra-money-in-the-budget-to-burn parties, and most importantly, the Pre-Tech Piss-Up.

(Courfeyrac declared the name official some time ago. Capitalisation and all.)

The Piss-Up is traditionally held at the two week out mark. It acts as both an excuse to blow off some steam, and a farewell party for any social life they might have outside the theatre until the show is over. Even Enjolras has it highlighted three times in his calendar. If only because he knows that without the night off, someone would probably murder him before opening night.

“Reckon we’ve got enough mixers?” Bahorel asks, setting a box of colas down on the table with a thud. He has arrived early to give Fuielly a hand with setting up, and can’t help but look at the pile of alcohol his friend has managed to acquire with trepidation. Some brands of beer, he recognises. There are other bottles he couldn’t begin to name. “What is half this stuff anyway?”

“My national heritage,” Feuilly grins back. “Think of this night as an exercise in cultural exchange.”

Bahorel groans. He knows just what ‘cultural exchange’ is code for. Fueilly’s family is Polish, and they never lost their home country’s attitude towards alcohol: Frequent, strong, and in good company. It’s an attitude that Feuilly has fully embraced. 

Bahorel can’t help but think the Europeans might be onto something. The ability to drink supervised in the house has meant that Feuilly, and by extension all his friends, have never felt the need to sneak out, chance fake IDs, or get so drunk they can’t see straight. True, each one of them has probably had a terrible night or two learning their limits at one basement party or another. It also means that the theatre club can hold their liquor better than any other group of teenagers he knows. 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t entirely terrified by some of the drinks they’re laying out. He picks up a bottle of Vodka with a Polish  label, looks at the alcohol content, then has to check again because there’s no way that can be right. 

“No way is this legal.”

“Coward.” A pause. “Maybe keep that one away from Pontmercy?”

Bahorel winces, the memory of a seventeen year old Marius and the worst hangover he has ever bourne witness to. “Good call.”

“Do you think this is going to feel strange tonight?”

“Because of the… The Thing?”

“What? No.” Feuilly frowns. “Because it’s the last one of these we’ll ever do.”

Bahorel blinks. In all the chaos and confusion of the past few weeks, he’s half forgotten that _Les Mis_ will probably be the last show they ever do together. “There will be other parties. We don’t  graduate until June.”

“But it won’t be the same. And that’s only a few months away. Then everyone will move away, and-”

“Hey.” Bahorel throws a hand around his shoulder. “We’re still all going to be friends. And yeah, maybe it will be different, but that’s the fun bit. And it doesn’t mean that we’ll forget about this.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. This, our friends, that’s not something that’s going to go away after we leave school. It’s a lifelong deal. You’re officially stuck with us.”

“Oh no, I take it all back. That’s terrifying.”

“Damn straight.” The doorbell rings, and Bahorel puts on his best grin. “Ready to forget about all that shit and make sure our friends embarrass themselves?”

“God yes.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Character names when they’re roles in the play are italicised - I was tempted to change them but it makes it easier for you all to understand the casting and what they’re talking about. Feel free to suspend your disbelief that no one would notice they had the same name as the characters, or insert fancy french names of your choice.
> 
> This takes place in a world where vocal range is not a thing. This means Enjolras can cast whoever he wants in whichever role and embrace his ‘fuck your gendered expectations’ stance without practical pitch limits, and I can cast whoever I want to draw overly obnoxious and on-the-nose parallels about character arcs :)
> 
> @hapless-and-hopeless


End file.
